The watcher hiding under the branches of the maple trees fifty yards from Storm clenched his fist in anger. He wanted to cry out in agony and his eyes twitched when he saw her pad past the window in a ripped shirt, clinging to yet another man. She didn't have a clue that he was getting an eyeful. He could step out from under the trees and walk right up to the back door if he wanted, break the glass, go inside, and do anything he wanted. Because he knew she would never know, since she is too absorbed in her own world now to sense anything.

Nikita. Why are you doing this to us. I could have given you everything. Now...I am going to get even.. Taking a last drag on his cigarette, he stubbed it out and ground it into the ark soil. And he wasn't going to make another mistake like the one a few nights ago.

The back door opened, and she came outside, and he wondered if she'd come out for a little fresh air. Then she began to cautiously look from the left, then the right and walked quickly along the surface of the wooden deck. She was heading for a metal trash can but she wasn't carrying any trash. He squinted and noticed that she was clutching her jacket tightly to her chest. He waited and his eyes never left her. He was just about to consider moving closer when her mobile rang.

Damn, talk about luck. But it doesn't matter. He would get his revenge, and he wasn't about to wait that long. He wanted her to understand that she'd brought her punishment on herself by compromising with other men.

* * * * * * *

Nikita flipped on her mobile, as she juggled to keep the video tapes hidden.

"Josephine..." Michael said and disconnected the line.

Sighing heavily, Nikita made her way to the Section.

* * * * * * *

"Are you sure he wouldn't notice?" asked Operation with a frown. "It wasn't on the assignment."

"He's knocked off cold. All I got to do is return and climb under the sheets. The man will never know."

Michael chose not to comment but noticed that Nikita looked rather strain. When the meeting was over, he motioned Nikita into his cubicle.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just a little tired."

Realising that she was not going to confide in him, he told her that he was taking her home. Not wanting to argue, Nikita just nodded. When she approached the car, Michael held out the half cup of takeout coffee he had left. "Thanks."

"You can have a whole one. There's a twenty-four-hour place a few blocks down."

"This is fine," she replied, taking the cup. Nikita shut her exhausted eyes. Eyes closed, she circles her head, cracking out the tension.

"You going to drink that coffee or just hold onto it?"

"What? Oh, no, here, I don't want anymore. It'll just keep me awake."

He doubted a tanker truck of coffee could keep her awake much longer. He voce was going thick, adding, he thought, to the in-the-gut sexiness of it. Fatigue had left her unguarded enough to tilt her face toward her as she tried to find a comfortable resting spot. Her eyes were shut, her lips soft and just parted.

He had a feeling he knew exactly how they'd taste. Warm and soft. Ripe with sleep.

At a stop sign, he put the car in neutral, engaged the emergency break, then leaned over her to press the mechanism that lowered her seat-back.

She jerked up, rapped her head smartly against his. Even as he swore she slapped a hand on his chest.

"Back off!"

"Relax, Nikita, I'm not jumping you. I like my women awake when we make love. I'm putting your seat back. If you're going to sleep. you might as well get as close to horizontal as we can manage."

"I'm alright." Mortified, but alright, she thought. "I wasn't sleeping."

He put a hand on her forehead, shoved her back. "Shut up, Nikita."

"I wasn't sleeping. I was thinking."

"Think tomorrow. You're brain-dead." He glanced over at her as he started to drive again. "How many hours have you been doing today?"

"That's math, I can't do math if I'm brain-dead." She gave up and yawned.

He drove through the light and pulled smoothly to the curb in front of her house. "Okay. Thanks." She reached down to retrieve her bag from the floor.

He was already out of the car, skirting around the hood. Maybe it was fatigue that had her reacting so slowly, as if she was moving through syrup instead of air. But he had the outside handle of the door seconds before she had the inside handle.

For five seconds they battled for control. Then with a halfhearted snarl, Nikita let him open the door for her. "What are you, from another century? Do I look incapable of operating the complex mechanism of a car door?"

"No. You look tired."

"Well, I am. So good night."

"I'll walk you to the door."

"Get a grip."

But he fell into step beside her, and damn him, reached the door one pace ahead of her. Saying nothing, merely watching her with those impossibly clear eyes. She snorted and said, "You're not coming in. Don't even dream of--" She broke off, shifting in front of him fast and pulling her weapon. "Keep back. Don't touch anything."

He saw it now. The fresh scrape and pry marks on the door. Nikita used two fingers on the knob, turned it, then booted the door open with her foot. She went in low, slapping the lights on, started her sweep even as Michael stepped in front of her.

"Get back. What are you crazy?"

"One of the things I learned in charm school was not to use a woman as a shield." Michael scanned the debris of the room. "Put your weapon away, he's long gone."

She knew it, felt it, but there were rules and procedures. "Well pardon the hell out of me while I play cop and make sure."

"Don't touch anything," Michael reminded her. Nikita rolled her eyes while stepping over a broken lamp and checked the rest of the house.

She was swearing in a low, steady voice as she headed for the phone. Michael took it from her and replaced the receiver. "I'll do it."

Nikita shook her head in fatigue and snapped on protective gloves and began to do inventory. Her stereo components, good ones, hadn't been stolen. But they had been smashed. Her laptop and the small TV that stood above the stereo had received the same treatment.

Every table lamp in the place-including the antique bookkeeper's light she'd bought for her desk-was broken. Her sofa had a long gash from end to end, and the guts of it spilled out in nasty puffs.

He'd poured the half gallon of paint she'd bought then had never gotten around to using, in the middle of her bed.

Over the bed, he'd slopped a message in the same paint.

Try To Sleep At Night

"Nikita," Michael said from behind her. "You have to learn to trust me."

"Maybe." She nodded as she walked back out of the bedroom. She picked her way to the living room and inwardly promised that she wasn't going to let it shake her. She couldn't. For an undercover agent, she reminded herself, nerves were as costly as rage and just as dangerous. The break-in at her house was a direct, and personal, attack. Her only choice was to stand up to it, maintain her objectivity, and do the job she'd sworn to do.

When the unit arrived, Michael told Nikita to pack what she thought she needed. She was moving in with him until it was over. Neither of them talked about the giant step they were taking; they told themselves it was simply a logical and convenient arrangement.

Then they had slept, tangled together, for what was left of the night.