CHAPTER 20

Michael sped east on the expressway, frequently checking the rear-view mirror. "First thing we gotta do is ditch this car and get new wheels."

"I'm sorry," said Nikita quietly.

"Don't be. This is a piece of shit anyway."

"No, I mean I'm sorry for how I acted earlier. You were only doing your job and I was a real pain. And you just saved my life!" She shook her head. "This whole mess with Gray is making me crazy."

Michael cut her a quick glance and touched her hand. "It's okay." He exited the expressway and pulled into a strip mall. He pulled out his cell phone and called Birkoff to explain the situation. Ten minutes later they were back on the freeway.

"Just out of curiosity, where are we going?" asked Nikita.

"Right here," said Michael as he whipped into the back parking lot of a fast-food restaurant. A dark green SUV sat by the trash dumpsters. A man wearing a grease- stained mechanic's jumpsuit got out of the vehicle and approached as Michael cut the engine. "Come on. Our new ride," said Michael to Nikita.

"Here you go, Samuelle. GPS, laptop, extra weapon and ammo, couple of Kevlars." He dropped the keys into Michael's hand. The guy ogled Nikita for a moment. "Protective custody. Yeah, that's a tough gig."

Michael cleared his throat and the guy dragged his eyes from Nikita. "Any messages?"

"Oh, yeah. Walter called. Said he found some info in Hillinger's locker. Two phone numbers, a name and date. We're processing it now."

"What about our shooter?"

"As you suspected, that vehicle is registered to Torlucchi's import-export business." The guy removed his cap and scratched his head. "Really stupid to use a company car to try to whack someone."

"Maybe they're getting desperate and don't care," said Michael.

"Probably." The cell phone in the guy's pocket buzzed. He pulled it out and read the text. "Flatbed's on the way." He tipped his cap at Nikita. "You two have a nice day," he said in a twangy voice.

"Keep me posted," said Michael.

"Copy that."

Michael and Nikita got into the SUV and headed for the expressway once again. "Can we trust that man?" asked Nikita, glancing over her shoulder.

"I'd trust him with my life," said Michael. "But not with you."

Nikita's cheeks turned pink as Michael continued. "He's ex-military. He likes to act in community theater when he's not picking off bad guys with a sniper rifle."

Nikita gasped. "Nobody is what they seem to be." She twisted in her seat to look at Michael. "Even you. Working in that grocery store," she huffed. "Do you have to take acting lessons before you can join the FBI?"

Michael laughed. "Couldn't hurt. A lot of skills are needed for undercover work."

They lapsed into silence for a while. Michael continued to check for tails as he activated the GPS for exact directions to the safe house. After driving and doubling back for another thirty minutes, they exited the expressway. They drove past small farms, finally turning down a long gravel drive toward a house set well back from the road.

Halting the car, Michael called the house. He had a short conversation and rolled forward. "We're good to go."

They came to a stop between a van and a service truck from the gas company. "There was some problem with the water heater," explained Michael. "We'll wait until he's gone."

The repairman stowed his tools, got in the truck, and headed up the long drive. "How long will we be here?" asked Nikita.

"Hard to say."

"That's not very reassuring," she said with a grimace.

A man who introduced himself as Special Agent Cooke met them at the kitchen door. He shrugged into his jacket and grabbed his phone and keys from the counter. "Gotta go. There's been a bank robbery in downtown Atlanta with a possible hostage situation. Fridge is stocked and believe it or not, you can even get a pizza delivered way out here."

He was gone in a flash and Nikita and Michael were left alone. Michael opened the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water. "Home sweet home."

"I need a bathroom," said Nikita. She set off down the hall. After taking care of business, she washed her hands and face. It was a wonder she hadn't wet her pants after being shot at this afternoon. She looked at her reflection. Her hair was tangled, but who cared? More unnerving was the fact that she was stuck here with Mr. Hot FBI Agent. It was a dangerous situation no matter how you looked at it.

Coming out of the bathroom, she could hear Michael on his cell. Probably talking to Birkoff or somebody at headquarters. She decided to check out the rest of the house. Three small bedrooms, laundry room, and a den that doubled as an office and storage room. The living room was large and the eat-in kitchen was set up as a command post.

Nikita sniffed the air. A noxious smell assaulted her nose. "Michael, do you . . . ?"

Michael finished his call and flipped the phone shut. "Oh shit. Gas leak. Come on, Nikita. Hurry!" He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the kitchen and out into the garage.

KABOOM!

The explosion ripped the front of the house off and flames shot into the air. The blast knocked Michael and Nikita flat on their backs in what had once been a flower garden several feet from the house.

Michael struggled to sit up. He touched his forehead and discovered a wet, sticky gash at the hairline. A few feet away, Nikita moaned.

"NIKITA!" Michael staggered over and knelt beside her. "NIKITA! CAN YOU HEAR ME?" Gently, he touched her shoulder. "NIKITA!"

"Michael." She opened her eyes and tried to sit up.

"Thank God! Are you hurt?"

She rubbed the back of her head. "I . . . I don't think so."

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah."

Michael hoisted her to her feet. As she took a tentative step, her knees buckled. Michael slid his right arm around her waist. "Throw your arm around my neck." They limped to the SUV and Michael pushed her in. He ran to the driver's side, jumped in, and they peeled up the long drive, flinging gravel in their wake.

Once they reached the main road, Michael pulled over and hit the speed dial for Birkoff. "We've been breached. I'll be in contact once we reach a secure location."

CHAPTER 21

Cursing under his breath, Michael drove through the countryside with one burning question in mind. Was the explosion an unfortunate accident or an act of sabotage? He was clueless at this point. For a split second, he had a flashback to Iraq. Improvised roadside bombs and comrades lost in battle.

Nikita's heavy sigh pulled him back to the present. He reached over and stroked her cheek. Thankfully, she had sustained only a few scratches and smudges of dirt. She managed a smile.

"I'm okay, but you're bleeding."

Michael rubbed his forehead. "It's nothing."

"Maybe you should call in the Marines." She gave a nervous giggle.

"You're looking at one."

Nikita hauled herself upright and studied him. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"I'll tell you about it sometime."

"Count on it." Nikita scrabbled in her purse for something to hold her hair back. "Now what?"

Michael considered the question for a moment. "Find a new hideout."

"Fine. I'm really pissed that someone tried to kill us twice in one day. Twice!" She punched the dashboard. Her voice rose as she clenched and unclenched her fists. "I'll do whatever I can to help you get to the bottom of this mess. I want my life to get back to normal."

"That's my girl," said Michael softly. He squeezed her hand.

A warm, fuzzy feeling filled Nikita. Maybe it was a case of adrenaline overtaking common sense, but it seemed right to be there with Michael, preparing to strike back at the enemy.

"We passed an abandoned farmhouse a few miles back," Nikita remembered.

"I saw it. But it's too close, too obvious." Michael moved to the shoulder of the road as a fire truck and sheriff's cruiser came around the bend. "We need someplace out of way." Suddenly, Michael grinned. "I know just the spot."

They continued east for half an hour. Finally, Michael turned down a long driveway. Yellow crime scene tape ringed an unpretentious ranch house with a crooked "For Sale" sign in the front yard. They parked in one side of a two-car garage. The closest neighbors were at least half a mile away. Unlikely any of them would drop in for a chat.

"What happened here?" asked Nikita.

"It's Woody Rollins' place."

Nikita swallowed nervously. "You mean where they found him dead?"

"Afraid so."

"I don't believe Gray killed him." She looked down at her hands and a pained expression crossed her face. "Gray might have been a lot of things, but he was not a murderer."

Michael fought the urge to pull her close and comfort her. He hated that she was mixed up in this ugly situation.

Nikita glanced up. "I just thought of something. Once, I think Gray said his ex-wife was named Theresa. Strange how some random fact pops into your head." She gasped. "Is that the Theresa you were asking me about?"

Michael nodded. "Theresa Evelyn Giordano Wellman, Gray's ex and favorite niece of Benny Torlucchi, east coast mob boss. Cousin of Cassandra Torlucchi, Benny's youngest daughter. AKA 'the bride from hell'. Anything ring a bell?"

"Oh my God! Then I may have seen her at the shop last year and didn't know it."

"No doubt."

His cell rang. He flipped it open and Birkoff began chattering a mile a minute.

"Have you reached a secure location?" asked Birkoff.

"For the moment. We're at the Rollins farm."

"Understood. A lot of new intel has come in during the past hour. And I mean tons!"

"I'm all ears."

"You're not gonna believe this! We got a major break and it involves Theresa Giordano and Kevin Hillinger!"

"Hang on," interrupted Michael. He put the phone in the slot on the dashboard and turned to Nikita. "I'm gonna put this on speaker. Listen, but don't say anything."

Nikita nodded, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"Go ahead, Birkoff."

"Three hours ago, the Boston field office arrested Theresa Giordano and Kevin Hillinger at Logan International before they could board an Air France flight to Paris. First, they were pulled from the security line for being drunk and disorderly. Then a search of their luggage revealed a loaded Glock, twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, a small amount of cocaine, and a stolen Monet sewn into the lining of Theresa's Louis Vuitton handbag."

Birkoff paused to catch his breath and slurp up a mouthful of soda. "Are these people totally stupid or what?"

"Totally stupid," agreed Michael. He exchanged a look with Nikita. Her jaw dropped in shock.

"Oh, but it gets better! When they were interrogated, Theresa blamed everything on Kevin. Said she didn't know how he got the painting, but that it was his idea to try to sneak it out of the country and unload it in Europe. She said he indicated he had contacts from his art school days. After that, she clammed up and called her attorney. That attorney just happens to be Gray's cousin Richard!"

Nikita looked at Michael in amazement. He shrugged his shoulders. He was as mystified as she was. "What was Hillinger's story?" asked Michael.

Birkoff laughed. "He was scared shitless! Spilled his guts. Said all he ever wanted to do was paint and, I quote, 'now this f-ing bitch has ruined his life.' He said Theresa bragged that her father, Vito 'The Virus' Giordano, masterminded the whole Greenfield Museum heist ten years. Seems he had a beef with the city of Boston over construction contracts. However, she didn't know where the paintings were until Vito died last year and she was clearing out a storage unit near the airport. With her uncle Benny and their financial genius David Fanning, the three of them began looking for ultra-wealthy and reclusive collectors who could afford these masterpieces. Preferably outside the United States where it might be harder to trace the provenance."

"What about the info Walter found in Greg's locker?"

"One number is Theresa's cell phone. The other is for Ahmad al-Nouri, a software designer in Birmingham. He immigrated from Saudi five years ago. We think he's brokering a deal for the painting Greg hid in the crate. Walter confirmed that that crate left for Birmingham this morning with a shipment of canned goods."

"Somebody's gonna be seriously pissed when they open that crate."

Birkoff snickered. "Yeah, wish I could be there to see it. I gotta go. Wolfe's having a briefing in ten minutes to update everyone."

"Okay. Later." Michael disconnected and stared at Nikita.

"What the hell?" said Nikita, shaking her head. "I had no idea this was so complicated."

"Neither did I. It gets worse by the minute."

"Did Theresa know the Hillinger guys before they moved into my building?"

"No. From various interviews we learned that Theresa met Kevin last year when she threw Cassandra a bachelorette party at Protozoa. He was the bartender and she was throwing a lot of money around. He had big credit card and student loan debt. They hooked up and he visited her several times in Boston after that. A win-win situation for both of them. He gets a rich girlfriend and she gets him and Greg to help move the paintings covertly."

"Wow. No wonder Gray said she and her family were bad news. But I guess he didn't know the half of it."

"Come on. Let's go in and get settled."

"Yeah. I've had more than enough excitement for one day," sighed Nikita. Even as the words left her mouth, she was acutely aware of being alone with Michael. Dusk had fallen and they were truly in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere in the distance, behind a thick stand of trees, a dog barked.


Mick peered through the window of his darkened upstairs bedroom to the street below. Streetlights had come on, but the car he was watching was parked beyond the glow of the light. It had been there for at least two hours.

He hadn't especially noticed it when he came home, but now he knew someone was watching him. It was a gut feeling. But his gut couldn't tell him if it was the cops or the feds or David Fanning.

How was he supposed to take care of his important errand tonight with this joker sitting down there? He couldn't drive his Rolls-Royce. That would be like turning on a bloody neon sign. He couldn't even take an Uber. His destination was too far away and he needed to go alone.

Wait a minute. He could call Uber to take him to a rental car agency. He could climb over his back fence, cut across old 's yard and have the rideshare pick him up on the corner. Brilliant!

Mick let the curtain fall back into place and reached for his cell phone.

CHAPTER 22

Michael unholstered his gun and clicked off the safety. "Stay behind me."

Close at his heels, Nikita whispered, "You think someone's inside? Wouldn't they have already come out and attacked us?"

"It's probably empty. Or there could be someone waiting to ambush us."

"Oh. Didn't think of that." Nikita suddenly wished she had a weapon to brandish, a rusty pipe or at least a large tree limb.

They ducked under the yellow tape and crept toward the back door. It stood slightly ajar. Michael pushed it open with his left hand and flicked on the kitchen light. With the gun in his right hand, he swept the room. No one leapt out at them. There was only the mess left by Woody's poor housekeeping and the crime scene investigators.

"Wait here," he whispered to Nikita.

He searched room by room until he was sure they were safe. "No boogeymen." He removed his holster and laid it on the kitchen counter. He studied the cabinets and appliances.

"What is it?" asked Nikita.

"Our people processed this place, but somehow I feel they missed something. Don't ask me what. It's only a hunch."

"How would you know? I mean, look at this mess." Drawers and cabinets stood open, their contents jumbled. Dishes sat stacked on the countertops along with assorted trash and junk mail.

"Think like a criminal. Where would you hide hot stuff?"

"Like a painting?" asked Nikita.

"Like a painting. Like stolen credit cards. Eleven paintings were taken from the Greenfield. We've only accounted for three so far."

Nikita sank into one of the rickety kitchen chairs. "Can I think about it later? I'm beat." She folded her arms on the table and laid her head down.

Michael came around the table and massaged her back. "Ahhh," she sighed. "That's wonderful."

"I'll get the supplies from the car. There should be something there to eat." The screen door flapped as he went out.

He returned a few moments later and sat a box on the table. "Energy bars, apples, packets of granola, bottled water and MREs."

Nikita lifted her head. "MRE. Isn't that what soldiers eat?"

"Yeah. 'Meals Ready to Eat.' But in Baghdad we called them 'Meals Rejected by Everybody.'"

"Ugh," grunted Nikita as she reached for an energy bar. "Hey, maybe there's something left in the freezer." She hopped up and opened the freezer compartment of Woody's old refrigerator. "Look at this." She pulled out a couple of frozen dinners. "Chicken Divan and Homestyle Meatloaf. That sounds a lot better than one of your rejected meals. See if that microwave works."

Michael plugged in the microwave while Nikita tore open the packages. A frozen slab of meatloaf slid out of the first carton, but something entirely inedible dropped out of the second one.

A small notebook.

Michael and Nikita stared at it and then at each other. "Seriously?" said Michael. He picked it up and leafed through it.

"What is it? Some kind of code?" asked Nikita.

"I'm betting these are credit card numbers." As he continued to flip through the notebook several stolen cards tumbled out. He picked up one. "Would you look at this? Madeline H. Wolfe."

"You know her?"

"Not personally. She's the wife of the Special-Agent-in-Charge. Her identity was stolen last week."

"Wow. So, this could be a goldmine."

"Exactly. I need to alert Birkoff."

"But what a weird place to hide it," said Nikita.

"Not really. Probably stashed it there as insurance against his partners. You know, in case one of them tried to cut him out of the loop."

Nikita slid the meatloaf into the microwave and punched some buttons. Michael leaned against the counter and rubbed his left shoulder. "Damn. Must have torn the stitches again."

"You're bleeding. Come on. Maybe there's some first aid stuff in the bathroom." She headed down the hall. Michael trailed behind her and stripped off his black tee shirt, dropping it on the floor.

She turned and sucked in a breath. Not at the blood, but at Michael's toned upper body and his tattoo. Winding around his left bicep was a cobra with a dagger in its mouth. She swallowed and pointed to the closed toilet lid. "Sit."

"Yes, ma'am." Michael winced and lowered himself.

She rummaged in the miniscule linen closet and found a clean washcloth. The medicine cabinet produced rubbing alcohol and bandages. She saturated the cloth with alcohol and dabbed the wound. Michael grimaced, but said nothing.

"Interesting tattoo. It looks . . . frightening."

"Do I frighten you?" asked Michael. His voice was soft and low, like a lover's caress.

Their eyes met and time ceased to exist.

"No." A flush spread over Nikita's cheeks. "I'm not afraid of you."

Michael stood and moved toward Nikita. "You should be." The closer he got, the more she inched backwards in the small bathroom until she was against the wall. "I can be very dangerous," he murmured. He reached out and stroked her cheek.

"I don't believe you," she protested. Her eyes widened as she took in short, quick breaths.

"Believe it." His mouth swooped down to hers. Rough lips met soft, supple ones, teasing, nibbling until she opened and his tongue plunged into her warm and willing mouth. Thrusting and tasting. Reminding him what another part of his anatomy screamed to do.

Nikita's arms closed around his neck. Her senses were on overload. If it weren't for the cool tile at her back, she would have dissolved onto the floor.

Michael's mouth left hers and moved down the slender column of her neck. "Oh, Michae," she panted. Her head fell back and she reveled in Michael's kisses.

CHAPTER 23

"I've been . . . wanting to do this . . . for a long time," said Michael between kisses.

"How . . . long?" Nikita could barely form a coherent sentence. All her energy was focused on the man before her. His mouth teased and tormented her while his hands skimmed along the sides of her breasts.

"Since the flight from Miami. That orange top was spectacular."

"It was tangerine," insisted Nikita as she remembered the silk tank top.

"It was hot. You were hot."

DING!

They both jumped at the sound. Michael rested his forehead against Nikita's. "Microwave."

"Yeah. Meatloaf," sighed Nikita.

Michael released her and stepped back. "For a moment I forgot where I was. I can't afford to let that happen again. It could cost us our lives." The buzzing of his cell phone in the kitchen snagged his attention. He picked up his tee shirt and stalked out of the bathroom.

Nikita slid down the wall to the floor. She touched her still-tingling lips. Wow! Even more amazing than I imagined.

In the kitchen, Michael rubbed a hand over his face and berated himself. Stop screwing around. Both of you could end up in the morgue. He opened the phone.

"Samuelle."

"Strange development, Michael," said Birkoff. "At fourteen forty, Mick withdrew a large amount of money from his personal savings account. Approximately one hour ago the secondary surveillance team tracked him exiting his house through the back door with a duffle bag. An Uber picked him up on the next street over and dropped him at Speedy Car Rental. Currently, he's driving east on I-20 in a late-model beige Toyota.

"Looks like he's skipping out."

"Yeah. There's a small private airfield off exit 40. About five miles from your location. Hang on a sec."

Michael could hear chatter as Birkoff picked up another call. After a minute he came back on the line.

"Michael, he just got off at your exit! And the team thinks a black van may be tailing Mick. They haven't been able to get close enough yet to ID the driver, but I'm running the plate now."

"Shit."

"Backup's on the way. How's Nikita?"

"Good, considering all we've put her through today." Michael quickly relayed the information about the notebook they'd found.

"No way! Wolfe will be ecstatic."

Michael snapped the phone shut, jammed it in his pocket, and grabbed his holster from the kitchen counter.

"Nikita! We're having company," he yelled.

"What?" She stepped to the kitchen doorway.

"Mick's headed this way and possibly another suspect." He pulled the extra gun from the supply box and rammed the clip in. "You ever fire a gun?"

"No. Never." Her eyes widened in shock and fear.

"This releases the safety. Just point and squeeze. Ask questions later. Can you do that?"

Nikita palmed the gun and drew in a big breath. "If I have to."

"Put this on." Michael handed her one of the Kevlar vests. "If anything happens to me, run like hell toward the woods. Then cut across the field to that house on the hill."

"I don't want anything to happen to you!"

Michael grinned. "Neither do I. But I used to be a Boy Scout and I like to be prepared."

Birkoff called again. "Mick's ETA is five minutes."

"We're ready."

Two minutes later, Michael and Nikita crouched behind the garage with their guns at the ready. Nikita had returned the notebook to the frozen dinner carton in the freezer while Michael moved the microwave, with meatloaf inside, to the garage. He opened a window to air out the kitchen and switched off the light.

"We'll see if Mick's after the notebook or something else," whispered Michael.

There was only a sliver of moon in the sky and crickets serenaded them as they waited. An owl hooted somewhere in the woods behind them. Nikita's heart pounded. It could have been a romantic setting if not for the stiff Kevlar vest and the gun in her hand.

"Any minute now," whispered Michael. Less than fifteen seconds later, a car swung into the driveway. It rolled to a stop and the headlights went dark. Mick got out and looked all around. Satisfied that it was safe, he headed for the back door.

"Bloody hell!" A calico cat darted out of the shrubs and streaked across his path. Mick jumped back and clapped a hand over his heart. "Stupid cat."

"He's here. Appears to be unarmed," said Michael to Birkoff. "And a little jumpy."

The kitchen light came on. Michael and Nikita crept closer and, through the window, observed Mick making a cursory search. He ignored the refrigerator and moved into the living room.

"Michael, there's another car!" said Nikita.

A black van with no lights on pulled in behind Mick's car. A tall man dressed in black emerged and pulled a gun from inside his jacket.

"Who's that?" asked Nikita.

"David Fanning. He launders mob money."

"What do we do now?" Nikita hoped she did not sound as scared as she felt.

"You are going to wait here. I am going to investigate. Backup is on the way," said Michael firmly. "Now stay put."


Mick searched the living room and moved down the hall to the bathroom. He rifled through the linen closet and then opened the old-fashioned medicine cabinet over the sink.

All that money and Woody never bothered to update this rat hole, thought Mick. Without warning, the cabinet fell off the wall, sprinkling the sink and floor with broken glass, gauze, razors, and aspirin.

"What the . . . ?" Mick stared at the perfectly round hole drilled in the wall. He stuck in hand in and withdrew a small cardboard tube.

CLICK! The distinctive sound of a bullet being chambered.

"Hand it over, Schtoppel."

Cold terror gripped Mick as he turned and saw David Fanning in the doorway pointing a big, ugly gun at him.

"Fanning! How did you . . . ?"

"Never mind that. Hand it over. Our friends in Saudi are anxious for their payment."

Mick swallowed the lump in his throat and held tight to the tube. He suspected it contained another hot painting. "Of course. That's why I was here. I knew you were looking for this and with Woody gone I thought . . . "

"SHUT UP! You always did talk too much. Mr. Torlucchi is waiting for this and you know how he hates to wait."

"Yes, yes, of course. I mean, he was so generous to loan me the money for the club and . . ."

Fanning fired a shot just above Mick's head that lodged in the wall. "NOW, SCHTOPPEL! The next one will be between your beady little eyes."

Mick yelped as if he'd already been shot. The tube slipped from his hands and an all-out scuffle began in the small bathroom.

Outside, behind the garage, the backup team had arrived and Michael was briefing them. In less than five minutes, it was all over. Mick and Fanning were cuffed and escorted to separate vehicles, protesting and cursing. Both suffered cut and scratches from the broken glass in the bathroom and in the scuffle, Mick somehow managed to get Fanning's gun and shoot him in the foot.

Michael kept Nikita in the shadows and relieved her of the Kevlar and gun once the situation calmed down. "You okay?" he asked.

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like this. Is this what you do every day?"

He pulled her into an embrace. "Not every day."

"Thank goodness," she sighed.

Michael laughed quietly as he stroked her back. "This was an easy take-down compared to some operations I've been involved in." They stood silently for a moment. "I have to go back to headquarters to get these two processed. I'll get Bailey to drive you home. Tomorrow you can come in and give your statement."

"What about Torlucchi?"

Michael reluctantly released her and stepped away. "He's being taken into custody as we speak. He's not a threat to you anymore."

Nikita sighed. "That's good. Will you be there tomorrow?"

"I'll be in and out. My informant from Miami, who's been taking up space in the Atlanta jail, finally decided to sing like a canary." Michael stole a quick kiss before escorting Nikita to Special Agent Bailey's vehicle.


At ten o'clock the next morning, Nikita found herself at the FBI field office once again. The same grey-haired receptionist greeted her and the same groups of men and women in dark suits filled the hallways.

"Hey, Ms. Wirth! How are you? You must be relieved that this is over," said Birkoff.

"I am and please, it's Nikita." She smiled warmly at him.

"Sure thing, Nikita. Uh, would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, thank you. Do you have decaf?"

"Yeah, I'll be right back. Just wait in here." He unlocked the door to the same interview room she had been in before.

In a few moments, he returned with the decaf and another agent. Nikita gave her statement, answered questions, and after an hour Birkoff was walking her to the front door.

"Is Michael here? I didn't see him around," said Nikita.

"Sorry, he had to catch the first flight back to Miami this morning. Major break in the drug case he was working before he got shot."

Nikita's smile faltered. "I see. Well, I hope everything turns out okay."

"I almost forgot. Wait here." Birkoff turned and ran down the corridor. When he came back, he handed Nikita an envelope. "Your bracelet. The FBI doesn't need it."

She thanked him and walked to her car. At least this time her Camry was still in one piece in the parking lot. She sat in the car and studied the diamond bracelet. It was beautiful, it was expensive, and it now held bad memories for her. She would never wear it again.

CHAPTER 24

Six Weeks Later

Life had returned to normal for Nikita. She was back at Scarlett's Dream helping nervous and excited couples plan for that big day in their lives. Back to shopping and working out at the gym and meeting friends for dinner or concerts.

When Nikita's name appeared in the media's early accounts of the Torlucchi-Wellman-Schtoppel crime saga, her mother was calling ten times a day from Palm Beach. Now she only called once or twice a week. Thank goodness.

Like everyone else, Nikita gradually learned new details about the case from the TV and newspaper. But for her the bigger mystery was more basic. What had happened to Michael? Had he dropped back into the shadowy undercover world he'd only hinted at? She'd hoped he would at least call to see how she was doing. After all, the whole experience was pretty traumatic for an innocent civilian. Sometimes she still woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

Her stomach growled as she sat in traffic. Lunch was only a handful of potato chips from her coworker's desk. Plus, she hadn't been grocery shopping this week. There might be a stale loaf of bread and some ketchup in the refrigerator, if she was lucky.

Might as well get it over with, she thought as she pulled into the parking lot of the store where Michael had done his undercover gig. I'm only stopping here because it's on the way home and I'm starving.

Yeah, right.

She grabbed a cart and slowly wandered up and down each aisle, not really sure what she wanted to eat. Suddenly she found herself in aisle six. She laughed as she remembered how Michael flirted with her here when she was looking for hose. She looked around as if he might suddenly materialize.

Get over it. You'll probably never see him again. Time to move on.

She released a weary sigh and moved on. Finally, she settled on a smoked turkey sandwich from the deli, a tub of potato salad, potato chips, microwave popcorn, and a pint of triple chocolate ice cream, all to be washed down with caffeine-free soda.


Michael was back to doing surveillance. His subject so far had had an uneventful day. He would give it another hour.


After dinner, Nikita pushed the food wrappers and containers aside and booted up her laptop. Last week, she'd had the diamond bracelet appraised and was quite shocked to discover its worth. After consulting with her contacts at Scarlett's Dream and in Atlanta high society, she had decided what to do with it. She logged into her e-mail and began typing.

When that was done, she took a shower and fell into bed. Before long, she was in REM sleep and having a fantastic dream.

Cloudless azure sky, sparkling emerald water, a tropical island . . . somewhere. A warm breeze fluttered the palm fronds overhead. Colorful parrots squawked in the distance. She and Michael were alone and sprawling on a large beach towel. She laughed as Michael toyed with the clasp on her pink bikini top with one hand while his other hand pulled her hair free from its ponytail. The top dropped away and Michael pushed her down on the towel. His eyes were dark with desire. He mouth found hers while his hands roamed over her supple body . . .

A rough hand clamped over Nikita's mouth. She jerked awake and struggled to scream. This was no dream! A large dark shape hovered over her.

"Nikita."

The hand lifted and she relaxed against the pillow. "Michael," she sighed. Her blood pressure began to return to normal. "Is the doorbell broken?"

He chuckled. "I wanted to keep you in bed." There was rustling of clothing and the rasp of a zipper. The edge of the comforter lifted and Michael slid in beside her. His hands framed her face as he lowered his mouth to hers. Touching lightly at first, then becoming more insistent until he forced her lips apart.

Nikita moaned in the back of her throat and arched up toward him. When he broke contact, she panted, "Ah, Michael. Yes."

"I've missed you, Nikita. I thought about you a lot." His hands explored her face, caressing over her eyebrows and running into her hair.

"What are you doing in Atlanta? Something about the case?"

"Later. Right now, I'm going to make love to you. If you want me to," he whispered.

"Oh, yes!"

His hands ran down the length of her body. "Nice. But this has to go." In a flash, her short satin nightie joined the pile of clothing on the floor.

"Better. I want to touch all of you." His mouth found hers again. Nikita stroked her hands over his back and gasped in pleasure when her taut nipples brushed his chest.

While her dream had been good, Nikita's last conscious thought was that reality was a thousand times better.


Nikita awoke the next morning spooned against Michael. His left palm laid flat against her belly and he propped up on his right elbow.

"Good morning," he murmured.

She stretched and smiled. "Yes, it is a good morning."

"Are you hungry? I'm pretty good at whipping up breakfast stuff."

"Sounds great, but I don't have any breakfast stuff," said Nikita.

"Tell me about it," laughed Michael. "You hardly bought anything at the store last night."

Nikita rolled over and stared with wide eyes. "You were following me?"

"Yeah. I wanted to be sure no grocery clerks tried to flirt with you."

She slapped at his chest. "You're incorrigible! I don't hear from you for six weeks, then you break into my apartment and my bed! What am I going to do with you?"

"Everything." Michael rolled over her and they indulged in an encore performance.

Some time later, they stumbled into the shower together. Once they were squeaky clean and dressed, they made it to the kitchen. "Good thing I brought some groceries," said Michael. "Your kitchen is a sad place. How about some omelets and French toast and strawberries?"

"Hmm, sounds like heaven." Nikita sat down at the table. "Mind if I check e-mail? Then I'll help you."

"Relax. I'm a whiz in the kitchen," said Michael as he prepared the skillet.

"Yes!" She jumped up and did a little happy dance around the table.

Michael looked over his shoulder. "What's up? You win the lottery?"

"Remember the bracelet Gray gave me?"

Michael nodded. "Major bling."

"The Women's Auxiliary at the children's hospital is gearing up for their annual fundraiser. I'm donating the bracelet to be auctioned off. At least some good can come out of the whole Gray Wellman case."

Michael smiled broadly. He laid the spatula down and pulled her close for a kiss. "I'm proud of you. That's a great plan!"

They sat down to eat and concentrated on the pleasures of eating for a few minutes. Finally, Nikita asked the question that had been nagging her. "How long will you be here?"

Michael pushed back from the table. "I hope for a long time. You see, I quit the Bureau. So did my partner, Jimmy Alvarez. For a couple of years, we'd been kicking around an idea and we decided it was time.

"What idea?" Nikita began twisting her napkin nervously.

"We're gonna open a high-tech security firm here in Atlanta. Jimmy was Army Delta Force and between the two of us, we have a lot of contacts. And Jimmy's wife has family here. What do you think?"

Nikita grinned. "I know it'll be a success."

"By the way, we'll be looking for an executive assistant. Someone who can deal with stressed out, demanding clients and not lose their cool. Know anyone like that?"

Nikita arched an eyebrow. "Maybe."

Two Weeks Later

Michael sat in his car outside a vacant building. He was waiting for Jimmy to arrive so they could check out this potential office space. He opened the morning paper and a headline on the bottom of the front page grabbed his attention.

Hospital Gala Raises Five Million Dollars

Work to Begin on New Orthopedic Unit

Michael smiled to himself.

THE END

January 19, 2008