Michael took the stairs two at a time, anxious to clear up the paperwork on his last case, ready to be free for his next assignment. The reception area was like a sterile hospital ward with its circle of glass-windowed cubicles surrounding it. Marcus Caprezio, the newly appointed technician in place of Birkoff, sat in the middle, monitoring the needs of the staff. Birkoff, he thought with a frown. Michael soothed the frown away as he nodded to Caprezio as he moved around the circle toward his own little cubicle.

Michael withdrew the file from his right-hand lower drawer and as he lifted his head his eyes met the piercing gaze of Madeline who was at the overhead. He swirled around and hit the Enter key on his computer. The screen lit up with page one of the file on his last case. He prepared to enter the notes from his file folder, his focus totally directed at the work in front of him. 10 minutes passed, then fifteen. He slumped back in his chair in disgust. He couldn't pull it together. At the rate he was going, the report would be thirty pages long and such a mishmash that even he wouldn't recognise the case he'd completed. Either that or it would be so brief he'd leave out half the vital details. He searched his desk drawer for the pack of cigarettes he knew he'd shoved in there. His hand met cellophane and closed around the empty lack. Damn. When had he smoked the last one? Probably the last time he'd tried to write one of these reports. One of the new folders on the screen blinked and with a click on the mouse, Michael's eye connected with Nikita's face.

It was great when he got teamed with someone on a case so he could con the partner into filing reports. Or at least do a share of it. The first time he saw Nikita was the day the learned that the Section had assigned her to him. He had stared unashamedly at the woman before him, his brain barely believing what his eyes were registering, his ears closed to her cries of outrage. This was no asexual career fanatic, no male wannabe; this was a living cheesecake, every man's fantasy. A wealth of blonde colored hair fell in a ponytail from the top of her head swinging with her every movement. She was wearing tattered shorts that showed off the longest, shapeliest legs he'd ever seen, legs that ended seductively in bare feet, and a T-shirt that clung to a full bosom without the confinement of a bra. Sanity threatened. But it was hard to react any other way with such a vision before him in the flesh. He forgot why he was there, what he was about, momentarily forgot his own name. Nikita was the kind of woman who brought out the worst in a man.

Outraged at his apparent lack of self-control, Michael tapped a pencil against his cheek. Just as he was about to return his attention to his work, his Intercom buzzed. Michael punched it and Madeline's chilled voice rang out, "Michael, check on Nikita, and then report." As he slowly reopened the blinds, Michael peered through the glass and sure enough he found Madeline still rooted at her spot, staring down at him. How does she do it? Michael thinks to himself. He fought for control over his nerves and though he tried to avoid contact with the solemn eyes staring at him through the glass window of his office, he had not been able to avoid their impact as they followed his every move. In anger, he slammed close the blinds and blew out a sigh of exasperation. Masking his anger at the invasion of privacy, Michael grabbed his keys and stalked out of his haven.

* * * * * * *

"Hey, boss," a man who was working the bar called out. Nikita's eyes narrowed as she studied the man with an easy smile. Brown hair, brown eyes, trim beard. Five-ten, maybe one-fifty. His dark suit was well cut, his gray tie neatly knotted.

"Kirby Sloan," he offered and Nikita did likewise. "Looks like we're turning most tables over twice tonight. Big dinner crowd for midweek," Sloan returned his attention to Blackwood.

"Good thing I brought us some help. She needs training," Blackwood said as he nodded towards Nikita.

"Ah, another victim," Sloan replied with a grin.

"You show her the ropes. She'll bus tables until you figure she can wait them."

"We'll whip her into shape. Come with me, I'll get you set up. Got any experience in food services?" Sloan asked as he plowed through the crowd.

"Well, I eat," Nikita said demurely.

Sloan let out a bright cackle of a laugh. "Welcome to my world. Stella, this is CJ, fresh meat. Stella works the bar area," he explained. "But she'll pinch hit in the club if we need her." The smile when Stella turned was friendly enough, but there was a measuring gleam in her eye. One female sizing up another, and the competition. There was a wild burst of laughter from outside the door.

"I better get out there." Stella tied a short, many-pocketed black apron at her waist and walked off. Nikita stared after the curvy brunette. Stella had her waist-length hair pulled back with combs from a lovely, heart-shaped face. Nikita gauged her as a mid-twenties, and a fashion plate. She'd gone for a skirt with small silver buttons. Silver winked at her wrists, ears and throat as she freshened her lipstick in a mirror.

"You want to freshen up or anything?"

"No, I'm fine. A little nervous, I guess."

"Don't worry. In a few hours your feet are going to ache so bad you won't think about nerves."

* * * * * * *

Sloan was right. About the feet anyway. By two, Nikita felt she'd hiked twenty miles and lifted approximately three tons of trays loaded with dirty dishes. She could have marched the trail from table to kitchen in her sleep. It didn't help when on the way by the dance floor, a man reached out and gave her butt a hopeful pat. She stopped dead in her tracks, turned slowly and gave him one, long icy look. The man stepped back, lifted his hands in apology and quickly melted into the dancers.

The live band was considerably louder than the recorded music that had played until just after twelve. The crowd shouted above it, crammed the dance floor and jammed together at the tables. Last call was enough to make Nikita weep with gratitude. She shoved her apron into her locker, pulled out her bag and jacket. She was just putting the jacket on when Stella breezed in. "Heading out? You look beat. Me, I'm just hitting stride this time of night."

"My stride hit me about an hour ago." Nikita paused at the door and asked Stella, "How did you get into tending bars?"

Stella hesitated, then said, "I guess I hang out at bars a lot, and when there came a time I was looking for what you could call gainful employment, Blackwood asked me if i wanted a job. It's good work." Though Stella had already calculated that Nikita's shoes probably equaled half a month's rent on her own apartment, she added, "Well, if you want to climb the ladder, Blackwood's the one to give you a boost. You'd have to figure that." With that, she walked out.

Stella, Nikita decided, was proprietary when it came to Blackwood. They were probably lovers, she thought as she stepped out of the lounge. Shutting the door behind her, she bumped solidly into Blackwood.

"Where'd you park?" he asked her.

"I didn't. I walked."

"I'll drive you home."

"I can walk. It's not far."

"It's two in the morning. A block is too far."

Before she can argue, he caught her chin in his hand. The gesture, the firm grip of his fingers, shocked her to silence. "You're my female employee. I'll drive you home."

She started to shove his hand away, but he beat her to it and shifted his grip to her arm.

"Night, boss." Sloan called out, grinning at them as they passed. "Get that girl off her feet."

"That's my plan. Later."

"What was that?" Nikita demanded as they stopped beside a sleek black Jaguar.

Blackwood unlocked the passenger door, opened it. "You're a beautiful blonde with legs up to your ears. I hire you, out of the blue, when you have no job experience. The first assumption from people who know me is I'm attracted to you. The second would be you're attracted to me. Add all together and you end up with romance. Or at least sex."

Going with impulse he shifted, boxed her in between his body and the car door. There was a light breeze, just enough to stir her scent. He used both his hands to hold her arms over her head as his mouth came down on hers. He felt her body jerk against his. He used his teeth on her, scraping them along the long line of her lower lip. Freeing the warmth, the softness of it to him, then absorbing it.

When his hands took her, fingers sliding down, gripping her hips, Nikita knew that she was every bit as ready as him to feed those hungers, to take what he craved without a second thought. But sanity returned when his hand nearly bumped over her weapon. Nikita jerked back as if he'd drawn it and shot her.

What was she doing? What in God's name was she doing? He said nothing, only stared at her with eyes that had gone blurry at the edges. Her body quaked. "That was a mistake," she managed to say.

He continued to stare at her as if in disbelief, then barked, "Get in."

She got into the car. Blackwood ignored her, drove through the light and pulled smoothly to the curb in front of her building. "How did..."

"I make it a point to know," he interrupted.

The moment she got out of the car, Blackwood was gone. She pulled open the door. Swore.

"What are you doing here?"

Michael help up a bottle of California Chardonnay and said, "Just in the neighborhood. Who's the new boyfriend?"

"Well, you did ask me to report to Blackwood whenever and wherever." She stepped close, grabbed a glass and calmly sipped.

Michael's mouth thinned, his eyebrows lowered, the way she knew they did when he was backed into a corner. He couldn't believed that he was consumed by jealousy. "Nikita." He said her name, and the old-fashioned sweetness of it clicked. She saw him step back, saw the deliberate distance he built between them by the change in his eyes. Michael dipped his hands into his pockets because they weren't altogether steady and walked further away. He needed a minute to calm himself because the closer he was to her, he couldn't breathe without breathing her, and every breath of air was like the pump of a drug.

"Fine." Pride iced his voice. "Just remember to report in the morning," he said as he yanked open the door and stalked out.

"Bastard," Nikita muttered and sacrificed dignity for satisfaction by slamming the door.

* * * * * * *

The man hung back in the shadow of the shallow woods across the street from the building. He could see a man walking out of Nikita's door. From where he stood he could see the glow of the man's cigarette in the dark as he got into his car that was parked in front. Anger ignited in him and he practically growled through clenched teeth, bunching his hat in an angry fist. He stared at the bristling man. His eyes glinting dangerously and his considerable size and stance were plainly threatening. But there wasn't a thing he can do without disclosing himself, at the moment.

Keeping his stride slow but even, he walked with purpose toward his target. If the man looked into his rearview mirror at that time, he'd surely spot him, even in the dark. He kept going, silently gripping hard on the dumbbell should the man suddenly get out of his car to question his presence on the street.

Scarcely breathing, he reached the house of the neighbor without incident. With careful stealth he made his way along the side of the house to the back, along the back, crossing a section of lawn, a patio, another section of lawn and then stepped onto Nikita's property.

Done! Easy as a pie. There was a gazebo in the middle of the backyard and he crept toward it, eased the screen door open and slipped inside. He sat for a while, surveying the house, feeling the satisfaction of trespassing without being caught. It was the sort of one-upmanship he most enjoyed, even though no one was around to appreciate his derring-do. He sat like that for half an hour and then got up to leave. He had nothing with him, had only the intention to stake out the place. But as he was about to make his way back the way he'd come, he had the urge to leave some proof of his prowess, something to let Nikita know that he'd been there.

He scanned the room and his eyes gazed upon her clothesline. He snatched a piece of lingerie and breathed in deeply. Satisfied, he left.