Kirill stared at the canvas, his green-brown eyes expressionless. They had been walking around for a few hours now, looking at naked sculptures. Clearly, early artists had no qualms over nudity. Kirill disliked overt women. Showing too much skin left very little to the imagination, and was…tacky. It lowered his appetite, rather than whet it. However the sculptures were different. He decided nudity in the pursuit of artistry might just be beautiful.

On the canvas lay the form of yet another naked woman. She was stretched out on a bed, reclining, her back facing the observer, but her head was turned over her shoulder, gazing back at him. He started imagining Michelle on the blue satin sheets, and a white-hot geyser of desire shot up his cock. He calmed himself down and willed his energetic little man to stop tenting in his pants.

He hadn't touched her all day. He just…hovered, protectively, like a sentinel, but just out of her personal bubble, like he was afraid she'd suddenly grow horns and become a billy goat, ready to butt him at any moment with vicious fits of tears.

Kirill didn't know what to do. He wasn't going to up and leave. He'd ran the thought over in his head last night for one second, and knew it wasn't what he was going to do. He wanted her, yes. He wanted her damn badly. He just didn't want her to cry again. Anything but the crying. He'd never held a crying woman in his arms before, and he hoped he'd never again have to. She'd clutched his jacket and sobbed like there was no tomorrow, and he'd let her, lamely putting a hand on her back and soothing her with nonsensical murmurs before he'd let her get wasted in that pub. God, he was getting soft.

Michelle had woken up with the biggest headache of her entire life. It was throbbing, and then burning, alternatively and repeatedly. God, she never drank whisky. She was a gin and tonic person, a two glasses of red wine per night person. When she had finally managed to prop herself up by the side of the bed, she remembered anew what had transpired the night before and groaned inwardly.

They were about to have sex!

She moaned aloud in frustration and buried her head into her nightshirt. She was about to have sex with the first guy she'd been attracted to in months! And then she'd burst into a fit of tears over…

Goddammit, no, she thought, willing the tears not to fall again. Seven years, she thought fiercely. I am not crying any more tears. I've cried enough.

And then she'd cried.

Not over the old boyfriend. She was thinking…thinking about yesterday. The whole day had been magical, really perfect, and then she had to go ahead and fucking cry. He'd said he'd be there in the morning, but Michelle knew better. She didn't blame him if he was running for the hills now. Getting the fuck away from the scary emotional woman.

She had gotten up with stiff limbs, and willed herself towards the shower. Just as she was wrapping her hair in a fluffy white towel, the phone rang.

It was front desk. The guy's voice was nasal, with a heavy French accent.

"A Monsieur Kondrashin is waiting for you in the lobby, ma'am."

She'd blinked, once twice, and stood still. "Pardon?"

"A Monsieur Kondrashin, ma'am. You are not expecting him?"

Kondrashin….Kirill.

He was here.

Shit.

"Ma'am?"

Michelle forgot she was still holding the phone to her ear. "Yes, I am expecting him. Please tell him I will be down as soon as I can."

"Oui, mademoiselle."

She'd jammed the phone down on the receiver and stood there like a lunatic. Then she'd run as fast as she could towards her suitcase, palming her clothes in a flurry to find something decent to wear.

She'd bounded down at half past ten in blue jeans and a cute white crochet knit top. Kirill was waiting in the lobby. He rose up when he saw her.

They didn't talk. They didn't touch. He'd asked her where she'd wanted to go, and after a few seconds, she'd told him. And now they were in the Louvre. She didn't have a clue whether he was enjoying himself or not. She looked over at him. He was still staring at Grande Odalisque.

"Do you like the painting?" she asked.

He scrunched up his face a little. "Her back is too long."

She gave a small giggle. "How can you tell?"

She slipped a hand by his elbow and stared at the painting. He stiffened. They stayed in silence for a few minutes.

"She does look a little unrealistic," she admitted.

"Her pelvis would have to be made of rubber, to turn like that."

Michelle stifled a snigger, and then burst out laughing.

"It's true."

Kirill had a completely straight face. Michelle nudged him gently, willing him to make eye contact. He did. Her grin was infectious, and he found his lips curving upwards ever so slightly. They walked away from the painting, their shoes clacking on the wooden floorboards.

"I. I thought you weren't coming today," she said after awhile.

Kirill raised his eyebrow. He was an expert at brow raising. "Why not?"

She tried to look him in the eyes but couldn't. "Look- I am sorry about last night. I didn't expect us to do a fancy dinner, and it was incredible…and thank you for letting me cry my heart out on your shoulder, but you didn't have to do it. Not for what we're doing."

Kirill's eyebrow shot up even higher, and his voice was terse. "And what exactly is it that we're doing?"

She looked at him. "You know what we're doing. We're total strangers who have just met, out of favourable coincidence, with the outcome to have casual and meaningless sex."

He didn't bat an eyelid.

"Interesting assessment."

Michelle frowned. He reached his hand to cup her cheek and kissed her.

As like the last kiss, it was over far too soon. He pulled away after only seconds, absentmindedly stroking her hair.

"I'm afraid I don't have all the answers with you," he said with a self-deprecating twist of his lips.

Michelle's heart was going to fall into a pile of mush at the bottom of her rib cage. She felt like she was sinking. Into quicksand. Deep, hazel eyed, sinful, muscular quicksand.

They walked hand in hand down the long galleries, stopping in front of some briefly, others for minutes. Kirill didn't say, but he liked it. He hadn't been to an art gallery since he was a very young child. As an adult he had not entertained many other thoughts other than his next assignment, his next kill, and getting out of it alive. He had no room for this, no time to ponder other things in life. Until now.

There was a special exhibition being showcased by two more contemporary artists. Since it was a weekday, the gallery was not crowded, and they had perused the collection at their leisure. He liked these the best. Some had no coherent form, no noticeable structure. But when he looked at the canvas, stared at the blurred lines and strange symbols, he felt his mind wandering, seeing things only he alone were meant to see. It made sense, but only to him.

They had lunch outside, in a café around the corner. The absent minded waitress had given them French menus, and Michelle did not want to admit how poor her French was, so she just let Kirill order. She tried not to stare again, as he jabbered on perfectly when the waitress came by to take their order.

"How do you do that?" she said in amazement as she left.

"Do what?"

"I'm sorry. Let me rephrase. When did you learn French? In Russian school?"

Kirill lied. "One of my family friends was French. I used to spend some summers here."

"Oh," Michelle said, satisfied.

Kirill felt bad lying to her. A little…something was gnawing at his insides. It was a feeling he was most unused to.

"And you never visited the Louvre?"

The incredulity in her voice made him smile. "Niet," he said. "My family is not very- artistically inclined."

"You mean your family friends."

"That too."

There was a small silence. Kirill fingered the napkin on his lap, twisting it.

"And you? Your family is- fond of art?"

Michelle nodded. "My mother is. She wanted to go to the Sorbonne to study when she was young. Her mother said no way," she chuckled. "She was amazing, though. She used to teach me how to draw growing up. She was very good. She had talent."

"She should have gone to study, then."

"They were too poor."

"That doesn't stop someone who really wants something," he said, thinking back to his own early days. Him, Katya, Nada, Nika in the same room, sharing it with a pitiful mattress each. Cockroaches and dirty rats in the cellars.

Michelle looked thoughtful. "True."

Their meals arrived.

"Did you always want to be a police officer?"

Kirill froze a little and then resumed what he was doing with the knife and fork. "It seemed- the right profession for me."

"How so?"

I'm good at killing people, he thought inwardly.

"I'm efficient. I'm good at doing what needs to be done. And I excelled at hand to hand combat."

"Nothing to do with protecting life and preserving the peace," Michelle teased.

A ghost of a smile came across Kirill's lips. "In some cases."

"Must be pretty tough at times."

He thought back to his last kill. He'd shot a man off a bridge on his jeep and watched as the car sank to the bottom of the river.

"Yes," he said. "But that's what we're trained for."

She'd nodded then, her eyes compassionate.

She wouldn't be as compassionate if she knew half the things he'd done, he thought. They finished the meal in silence. Kirill paid and tipped the waitress, and then they left. They wound their own lazy trajectory back to the hotel, this time stopping to rest at Pont Neuf. Kirill liked it better here. There were no interlocked lovers with their lips attacking one another, just a lot of Japanese tourists who took a lot of pictures. That he could live with.

"How do you usually spend your holidays?" she asked.

His facial expression did not change. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a proper holiday. He looked away for a moment, then drank from his water bottle.

"Nightclubs. Women. Drinking."

She arched an eyebrow. "I see."

The ice in her voice amused him and made another part of him grimace.

She had turned to face the river, her arms folding gracefully atop the railing.

"I get it. It's the usual thing for men to do. Get smashed, get laid."

The casual tone in her voice made his stomach turn to granite.

"It is," he said. "But not the best thing for them to do."

She turned to look at him. "Is that why you decided to come here?"

"Perhaps," he said, leaning against the rail also, his eyes looking over the water.

She looked at his profile. He was beautiful yes, but hawk like at a certain angle. Michelle sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to be a judgmental bigot."

He shrugged. "Your assessment is not inaccurate."

"That I'm being a judgmental bigot?"

He chuckled. "No. Of course not."

They stood there in comfortable silence again, looking out at the water. Then, his curiosity got the better of him.

"What happened?"

She looked at him. From his expression, she could tell what he was referring to.

For a moment he thought she was going to cry again, and he was going to tell her to forget about it, but she didn't. Her forehead had screwed up, and her lips were pursed. She blew out one long breath.

"I was an idiot."

She didn't say anything else.

"I find that hard to believe," Kirill said tentatively.

"I was," she said again. "I stayed with a man who was completely selfish and arrogant for seven years. I knew who he was and yet I stayed."

"Why did you?"

She was gazing out at the water, lost in her thoughts. Her voice was soft. "I told myself I was strong enough to handle it. I was proud of myself, for not needing him, for not needing his attention, or his love to make me happy or complete."

"Looks like you didn't need him much then," he said.

"But in the end, we all need love. I needed love. I needed support, and encouragement, and all those normal, healthy things you are supposed to get in a relationship, and you know what the stupid thing is?"

She turned to him but didn't wait for him to answer. "I stayed anyway! I stayed with a man who I knew could not provide me with those things."

She gave a little gulp. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I put up with so little, for so long," she said. Her face scowled, and she turned to face the water again.

"In the end I can only blame myself."

Kirill was at a loss as to what to do. He could feel her pain, though, and it almost hurt him. He wrapped an arm around her and waited for her to finish crying.

"Shh," he said. He lifted her tear filled face to look up towards him. "You know what I think?" he said.

She shook her head.

"I think you were being too strong for your own good."

She sniffled again, and a few tears squeezed out. She pulled out a tissue from her pocket.

"He's got to be the idiot, for losing you," he muttered softly as she dabbed at her eyes.

She smiled at him, her eyes red and puffy, and his heart gave an enormous wrench.

He knew he was in big trouble.