AN: Continuation of the first flashback in 1x17, Covenants. Hope you enjoy! Please read and review :)
"You can surprise me anytime."
She smiled gently, then ghosted out the door in her impossibly high stilettos, brushing his palm with her fingers on the way out. Michael remained rooted to the amber carpet, face frozen in a glazed smile before he shook himself and followed his agent out the cast oak door. When he ventured out into the breezy Russian autumn, she was already seated in the slick stretch limousine that had been sent to chauffeur them to the Guggenheim gala. He quietly slid in next to his partner, ignoring the electricity that crackled the moment his thigh brushed hers.
As the wheels of the limousine spun faster and carried the deadly duo closer to the Potanin estate, Nikita felt a tiny ball of dread settle like lead in her stomach. The initial bravado she had felt at seeing Michael had quickly faded taking her confidence with it. Though his presence was certainly more than reassuring, she could still hear Amanda's cold, calculated words echoing in her head.
"This is do or die, Nikita. No matter what happens, you must complete the mission."
"I understand. It's not like I haven't done so before."
"Vladimir Potanin…"Amanda paused, choosing her words carefully before they spilled out of her ruby red lips. "…is difficult. He is rather…immune to a woman's charms. So you'll have to take it beyond what you're accustomed to."
Nikita nodded slowly, suddenly confused at the concerned look on Amanda's face.
"Remember, Nikita. He is backed by the might of the Russian mafia. If you fail, there will be no ex-fil and Division will deny any involvement."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she randomly fingered the pleated crystal detailing on her Jimmy Choo clutch. She knew the stakes to this game—they were higher than usual. Much too high. This time, it was not just her life on the line, but his too. If she made one tiny mistake, both of their heads would end up on the chopping block.
Warm, soothing fingers slid over her restless hands and she stopped plucking mindlessly at the silk fabric. A hot glow blossomed inside her abdomen at his touch and she unconsciously burrowed into his tuxedoed warmth, leaning her head against his shoulder.
"Stop thinking so hard. You're going to get an anxiety attack." His whisper ghosted onto her neck, breath fluttering in her ear.
She rolled her eyes and laughed shakily. "Please. I don't get anxiety."
"There's always time for a first," he replied, before giving her hand a comforting squeeze and letting go. He tried to suppress the strange hollow feeling that expanded in his chest as he relinquished his grip on her hand. He chided himself silently. She was nothing but his agent. She was nothing enormously special.
Except for the fact that she was. She was Nikita. The most brilliant, awe-inspiring agent that Division had seen in years. The notorious femme fatale that had swooped in and captured the heart of Division's famously stoic second-in-command. But of course nobody knew about the second part.
The limousine rolled to a stop and Nikita accepted Michael's hand as they stepped out into the chilly Russian evening. His hand settled on her hip and he felt her slight intake of breath as they followed the trail of distinguished Russians into the ritzy establishment. Potanin's estate loomed over their heads—a palace for himself and his wife and the very epitome of the outrageously rich. The domed ceiling of the main lobby soared over their heads as a cheery orchestra flaunted a Mozart waltz. A babbling champagne fountain flowing against a marble-tiled wall was matched by the rising chatter of aristocratic Russian.
Nikita snatched two champagne flutes from a passing waiter, handing one to a disapproving Michael.
"Nikita," he scolded. "You know what Percy says about drinking on the job."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh come on. Look around. No Percy, no Division. It's time to live a little."
Nudging his shoulder, she shot him a wink before taking an exaggerated sip.
Michael was about to let out a smart retort except that a light tap on his shoulder stopped him.
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but marvel at your suit jacket." A middle-aged balding man was standing behind Michael sheepishly, smiling slightly at him. Both Michael and Nikita were staring at him in slight shock. Vladimir Potanin. The head of the Russian Mafia was standing less than a foot away from Michael and admiring his suit for God's sake.
"Lovely cut, fits you perfectly. Armani, I suppose?" he asked, never taking his eyes off Michael.
Michael nodded curtly. He knew Nikita was the bait; this was her chance to shine. Right on cue, she cut in smoothly.
"Most definitely," she smiled, shooting Potanin a dazzling smile that would have made the sun hide in shame. "I chose it specifically for him. I have a rather particular eye for these types of things."
Potanin nodded, almost blatantly ignoring what Nikita had just said. "Wool voile? The texture is absolutely stunning. Straight cut, works fantastically on your body type. You could most definitely be the perfect face of Armani's new male campaign."
Nikita couldn't help but notice that Potanin's hand had settled on the wrist of Michael's suit jacket, slightly fingering the luxurious material. Jealousy inside of her flared hotly and she tried desperately to quench it. How the hell did she get jealous this quickly? And over a man? She tried to catch Michael's gaze, but suddenly realized that he was just as engrossed as Potanin was in regards to Armani's campaign.
"Really?" Michael asked, leaning forward slightly, a tiny grin flickering at the corners of his mouth. "I've never thought of going down that avenue. Mostly sitting in a regular old office. Corporate jobs only."
Potanin grinned roguishly and patted him on the shoulder. "нет! No! You in an office? Never. That would be an abomination to you and your look."
"Why thank you," Michael replied, rather flirtatiously.
"So what would bring you to a Guggenheim gala in Russia? Are you on the American branch of the board of trustees?"
Michael shook his head innocently, allowing the brilliantly executed lies to slip easily through his lips. "No, I'm not. I'm an acquaintance of Natalia Potanina. My company serves as the middleman between the artists and the Guggenheim museums."
Potanin nodded his head slowly and a look of slight disgust crept onto his face. "Ah, yes. Natalia would invite people without my consent. My wife has a tendency to do that."
"Your wife?"
"But of course, I am her husband. Vladimir Potanin. Pleased to meet you by the way…?"
"Michael West." He smiled, extending his hand. It did not go unnoticed by Nikita that Potanin had not asked for her name. Nor the fact that Potanin grasped Michael's hand and held on for slightly longer than necessary.
Michael turned and plucked two glasses of Chardonnay from a serving tray. Handing one to Potanin, he clinked glasses and proposed a toast. "To the host of this lovely party."
"Not a very good one," he replied back smartly and they both let out loud chuckles and took deep gulps from their flutes.
Slowly it began to dawn on Nikita. The head tilt, the slight touches, the laughing. Potanin was flirting with Michael. And to make matters even more strange, he was flirting back. She giggled silently to herself and continued to down several more glasses of champagne while she watched the scene unfold.
In the midst of another bout of laughter with Potanin, Michael abruptly tipped to the right, spilling his glass directly onto Nikita's chest.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, grabbing a satin napkin and handing it to her. Eying her carefully, he glanced quickly towards the doorway, then back into her large doe eyes. "You better go get some seltzer on that."
"Michael!" she exclaimed in false indignation. "This is BCBG! How the hell are you so clumsy? God, now this damn stain will never come out!"
"Women," Michael muttered to Potanin as Nikita pretended to stomp away furiously. Passing a glance at Nikita's retreating back, Potanin nodded gravely before striking up the conversation once again.
Nikita quickly marched away, muffling her sniggers into the scrap of cloth in her hand. She slipped out of the enormous ballroom and headed into the nearby bathroom. Shutting herself into the second stall, she quickly pulled off her sling-back Louboutins and stowed them behind the marble toilet. Clambering onto the toilet seat, she cautiously slid back a large panel in the ceiling and hoisted herself up into the resulting hole. Gently sliding the panel back in place, Nikita began to wiggle her way through the tiny passageway. She quietly followed her trail through the house on her phone before venturing upon the correct air conditioning vent. Giving the room a quick once over through the metal slats, she pulled two silver hair pins out of her curls and slowly wiggled the screws out of their sockets. She crawled in and straightened up, glancing around, before brushing dust and cobwebs off of her dress.
Potanin's office was enormously large and a myriad of shelves lined with books and files were paneling the walls. A crystal chandelier dangled over an enormous oak desk containing several whirring computers. A mammoth conference table that could seat fifteen sat in the middle of the room, countless books and open documents strewn across it. Persian carpets covered the floor and muffled Nikita's cat-like footsteps. Looking around, Nikita groaned softly. Finding the miniscule flash drive that Percy demanded would take hours. But judging from the rambling about suits and male models that was still happening in her com, she would have plenty of time. Darting toward his desk, she began rifling through the many drawers, taking care to ensure that each paper did not look as though it had been disturbed. After pawing through the crevices of the entire room, Nikita clenched her fists in frustration.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing that would convict Potanin or even mark him as a suspect. She stomped her bare foot in frustration on the Persian rug, jumping back when it emitted a slight squeak. Getting on her knees, she pulled the carpet back, laughing at how stupidly obvious Potanin's hiding place had been. A miniscule safe was hidden underneath, its miniature dial glinting slightly in the soft chandelier light. Pulling her knife from her thigh holster, she gently pried the dial off and swung the door open.
Bingo.
She slipped the tiny flash drive into her cleavage and snapped her knife back into its place. Her com unexpectedly crackled and she flinched slightly as static filtered through. Suddenly, one voice burst violently into her ear.
"Nikita!"
"What, Michael?" she asked, her triumph deflating at the evident anxiety in his voice.
"He left. He said he had to get back to his work. He's probably already heading up there. Get out of there. Now."
She groaned. "You couldn't have kept him distracted for a little longer?"
Ignoring the rest of Michael's garbled reply, she slid the dial back into place and closed the safe. Pulling the carpet over, she smoothed out the slight footprints that had been indented into the rich fabric. She slipped into the vent and pulled the cover back on just as Potanin burst into the room. He immediately seated himself at one of his many computers and promptly began typing.
"Michael West." He murmured to himself and his fingers darted over the keyboard.
Nikita's mouth fell open in shock as she watched Potanin Google her mentor. Choking back cries of laughter, she wiggled her way back out and dropped carefully back into the same bathroom stall. Pulling her heels back on, she glided out of the bathroom to rejoin Michael. Upon entering the ballroom, she spotted as he chatted up a gorgeous blonde woman in a shimmering golden gown. The woman laughed delicately at one of his comments and Nikita felt another, stronger stab of jealousy. Shaking herself, she squared her shoulders and marched towards him. Taking his elbow, she tugged slightly, while smiling at the other woman.
"I'm sorry, but could I borrow my date for a moment?" She didn't wait for an answer, as the ballroom suddenly exploded with noise. Potanin was standing on the other side of the room, flanked by several burly bodyguards. His face was beet red and he was screaming at the top of his lungs.
"лгун!" Liar.
"That's our cue to go," Michael breathed into Nikita's ear. Turning to the blonde woman, he nodded politely. "It was lovely meeting you Cassandra, but there's been a bit of an emergency."
They bustled past her as the crowd swirled around Potanin's angry, still shrieking form. Guards had begun to filter through the guests, searching for Michael. It was dark outside, the moon and stars twinkling above, as they flew down the marble terrace. Glancing at each other, they nodded before hurtling down the immense lawn towards their waiting car, crunching through orange and yellow leaves. Sliding quickly in, the limousine squealed away just as a tidal wave of guests spilled out of the estate's doors.
Inside the limousine, Nikita turned to Michael, who was panting slightly and smiling devilishly. "You are such a flirt."
Hope you liked it! This is just a one shot, but I may extend it depending on reviews and what you all think. Thanks for reading!