Mickey opened his eyes and stared at the woman who was standing at the end of the couch, staring back at him. "Hey, Romanov," he observed, "you quit sleeping in the nude."

"I didn't figure your heart could handle it twice," she replied. "What're you doing here?"

Kostmayer sat up slowly, stretching as he went. It was one of the more comfortable couches he'd ever slept on - but it wasn't a bed. "Control sent me to babysit. Said you were 'cidal."

"Cidal?"

"Yeah. Homicidal, suicidal, something. He wasn't real clear."

Lily shook her head. "Sorry, Mickey."

"Not a problem." He looked her up and down. She was wearing dark sweat pants, a white T-shirt, nothing else. The shirt was splattered with tiny rust-colored stains. Her face was clearing up pretty well, but her thin arms were still yellow with healing bruises, and there were four or five burn scars. "You look like hell," he observed kindly.

"I feel worse."

He patted the couch beside him. "Come. Sit. Tell me your troubles, little girl."

She sat, folding her legs under her. "I'm pregnant."

Mickey felt the air empty from his lungs in a rush, as if he'd been gut punched, hard. "Not very."

"Six, seven weeks."

It didn't take a math genius. Mickey opened his mouth, not sure what was going to come out, and she cut him off. "I'm keeping the baby."

Kostmayer shut his mouth, swallowed the words he hadn't yet considered, and brought forth better ones. "You want to get married?"

"What is that," Lily asked with a half-smile, "the standard Polish Catholic knee-jerk response?"

"Yeah," Mickey admitted, "but the offer stands."

She stared at him for a moment. "Damn, I love you, Kostmayer."

"It that a yes?"

"Nnnooo," she answered slowly. "But thanks for asking."

Mickey nodded. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Quit the Company, find a job that doesn't make me travel three hundred days a year. I've got some investments, and I speak seven languages. It shouldn't be a big problem."

"Okay. But you know, whatever you need."

"Thanks, Mickey."

"I mean, sooner or later, you're gonna need to call in an expert."

She raised one eyebrow at him, suspicious. "An expert?"

"Yeah. I know, I know, you're Miss Modern Girl, all independent and all, but let's face it, you've tried your best and you just can't do it. Sooner or later, you're gonna have to let me teach this kid how to fish."

The smile this time was full, with a trace of her old sparkle. "I will keep that in mind."

He eyed the spots on her shirt again. "Control's not dealing, is he?"

"Oh, Control is not dealing in spades." Lily stood up and paced to the windows and back, sighed. "And of course he pushed all my buttons until I wasn't dealing, either . . . "

"He's good for that. You two have it out?"

She rubbed her eyes. "I have never, ever, had a fight like that. I have never come that close to . . . to . . . aw, Christ, what have I done?"

Mickey stood up. "Whatever it was, you both survived it. Something to be said for that."

Lily shook her head. "I've got to get to the office. I've got to . . . " She paused, gathered herself. "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Good." She handed him the room service menu. "Order me some French toast and a big glass of OJ. I've got to shower."

"One question?" Mickey asked before she could leave the room.

"Sure."

"Whose blood is that?"

She frowned, puzzled, until he pointed at her shirt. Then she looked down, shaking her head. "His."

Once she was out of earshot, Mickey answered, "Good for you."

# # #

Room service was predictably slow; by the time breakfast got there, Mickey had had a shower, too, and Lily was in her oh-so-professional navy skirt and white blouse, her hair up, most of the facial bruises hidden under discreet make-up. They took the tray to the little kitchenette and ate quietly.

"Okay," Lily finally said, when she was done with her breakfast, "straight up, Kostmayer, do you think I'm crazy?"

"Absolutely," he answered at once. "Course, I've thought that for quite a while. First time I saw you, in fact, leading that mule with the beer cases on its back, I thought, damn, that woman is just stone crazy."

Lily chuckled. "That was good beer."

"Best beer I ever had," Mickey agreed. "You having second thoughts?"

"Not exactly." She took a long drink of her orange juice. "Questioning my motives."

"Hmmm." Mickey had eaten his three eggs and his flapjacks, and turned his attention now to the bacon and hash browns.

"I wonder if I want to keep this baby just so I have an excuse not to go back out there."

Kostmayer shrugged. "That happens."

Lily sat back, sighing. "I'm not quite as slick as I thought I was, Mickey."

He actually laughed. "Romanov, nobody's as slick as you thought you were."

She just stared at him, bemused. "Oh."

"Sorry, kid." He waited until she finally laughed, too. "The thing is, Lil - you did okay. You kept your head, you kept your mouth shut, you got through it alive. That's what counts."

She wasn't convinced. "Maybe." She rubbed her eyes again. "I got so much stuff running around in my head, I can't even see straight. I just . . . I don't know."

"Little advice?"

"Sure."

"These bastards from DC? They're messing with your head. So is Control. Hell, even McCall's got his own agenda. Forget it, all of it. Get to the bottom line. Do you want this baby?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. "But . . . "

"No buts. You want the baby, keep the baby, to hell with the rest of it. Quit worrying about why and go with it."

Lily thought about this for a very long time, while Mickey ate the rest of the hash browns, the bacon, the grits, and half the sausage. "Damn," she finally said, shaking her head. "Who'd have thought it?"

"What?"

"That of all the people I know, you'd turn out to be the wisest."

Mickey grinned, embarrassed. "Hey, sometimes I say the right thing."

"I love you, Kostmayer."

"You said that."

"Yeah, but this time I mean it."

Mickey finished his coffee. "One more thing?"

"Hit me."

"These DC jerks. They can't afford to fire you, you know."

She looked at him, speculatively. "Go on."

"You make 'em too comfortable, they'll want to stick around."

"Ah." Lily glanced down at her staid and proper white blouse. "Your point is well taken." She stood up. "Call me in late, Mickey. We need to go shopping."

# # #

"They're going to blame me for this," Mickey said as she climbed out of his van.

She smoothed her jeans down her thighs; they were too tight to straighten on their own. She wore them with a man's shirt, oversized, white, half-buttoned, under a black leather jacket. "Yeah," she grinned, running her tongue over her scarlet lips. "That's the best part." She came around to the driver's side of the van and leaned through the window to kiss Kostmayer on the cheek. "Thanks, Mickey."

"Any time."

He watched her walk into the building. The walk was worth watching. Oh, yes, they were going to blame him. Well, let 'em. Grinning, he put the van into gear.

"Where is she, Control?"

"We know you were at the hotel last night, against directive. Where is she?"

"I don't have her," Control answered calmly. His mind raced. Kostmayer was supposed to call in this morning, if she wasn't better. And he had called, said that they'd be late. Nothing more. Which might mean anything. Control had thought it meant that she was all right, that she had recovered overnight, that she was steady enough to deal with these bastards again today. But where were they?

"You know where she is," Dugan insisted.

"Why isn't she here?" Horwood chimed in.

Control had tried to be fair with these men. They were, after all, technically working for the same government. But now they were in his office and in his face, and he was in no mood. He gave himself fully over to the delight of hating them. "You had the tail on her. If you lost her, it's your problem."

Kostmayer got to her, he thought suddenly, and they're halfway to Niagara by now, headed for the Peace Bridge and Canada . . .

Forgetful, he rubbed his lip, then snatched his hand away. It hurt. A lot. He'd told his staff he's slipped in the shower. Whether or not they believed him was debatable, but they were too well trained to question him.

Where was Romanov?

As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard her voice in the outer office. "Hey, baby," she said brightly to his secretary, "what's shaking?"

"They've been waiting for you."

"In here?"

And then she was in the doorway, all curves and leather, confidence and vamp. The impossible, irrepressible Lily Romanov of old.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dugan demanded.

"Shopping," she answered simply. "You like?"

"Let's get to work."

"Be with you in a minute," Lily answered. "I need to talk to Control."

"No," Horwood answered. "You're already late. We don't want you talking to anyone else."

"In a minute," she repeated.

"Look, we don't want any trouble with you . . . "

"Don't start none," Romanov answered bluntly, "won't be none. Five minutes."

They grumbled. They were not terribly smart men, but they were too smart to challenge her. They went.

Control stayed behind his desk, staring at her in frank amazement. Who was this woman? How had she managed to salvage anything out of the terrified animal he'd left last night - much less this? Where in God's name did she get the strength?

Lily stayed in the doorway. "Can I come in?" she finally asked, formally, as if they were strangers.

Which they were. "Please."

She shut the door and stood in front of the desk. "You can sit down," Control offered, awkward in the emotional distance between them.

Lily shook her head. "I'm not staying. I just wanted to apologize. Are you all right?"

He shook his head. She'd been beaten to a bloody pulp, tortured, raped - and she was worried about a cut on his lip. "It's not so bad."

"I'm really sorry."

"Don't be." Control stood up and went around the desk. "I had it coming."

"No. You didn't." She shook her head, sad, sincere. "I swore way back when that it would never come to that between us. I just . . . I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven. Am I?"

"For what?"

"All of it." She looked puzzled, and he waved it off, self-conscious. "We'll talk about it later. Are you all right?"

Lily shrugged. "All things considered, I'm okay."

"I can get rid of those two if you want."

"Not without stirring up the bottom. Don't worry about it. I can handle them."

Control nodded slowly. It was all front, this new confidence she had, but it was a good, solid front. A good start. "You need help, you let me know."

"Thanks." She turned to go.

"Lily." He had to put his hands behind his back again, to keep from reaching for her. "When this is done - the DC guys - can we find some neutral corner and talk about this?"

Her face darkened. "I'm not giving up this baby. You can't change my mind."

"I won't even try. I promise. I just . . . don't want to leave things like this."

She considered, dubious. "I don't know."

"Please. Just talk, I swear. No coercion. Just . . . like we used to talk."

That comment hit home, and she shrank into her true self for a moment, lost, injured. "That was a long time ago."

"Too long," Control agreed.

She reached out, carefully, tentative, and brushed her fingertips across the wound on his bottom lip. "I never meant for this . . . "

It was the first that she'd touched him, willingly. "It's all right, Lily."

She drew her hand back. "We'll talk," she said uncertainly.

"Thank you."

She bowed her head, took a deep breath, and put the confidence back on like a costume. "Protocol question?"

"Go."

"Would you mind terribly if I vamped these guys right back to the Beltway?"

Control found a grin. "I would love that."

"Good."

"Romanov?"

"Sir?"

"Welcome back."

She smiled, briefly, turned and went, leaving the door open behind her.

"Hey, girlfriend," she said to his secretary, "you still not smoking?"

"Six months," the woman replied proudly.

"Still got all those suckers in your drawer?"

"Sure. How many do you want?"

"Two or three. Just red ones."

A drawer opened, plastic rustled. "Just red . . . you're not going to do what I think you're going to do."

"Watch me."

"Watch you, hell, I'm gonna go sell tickets."

# # #

Angela Shirry was badly frightened, and also highly indignant. "The clinic is closed Wednesday mornings," she told Robert in her office. "I came in early, to catch up on some paperwork, and he was right here in my office!"

"Have you called the police?"

"I didn't know if I should." She glanced over at Mickey, who was wandering the office curiously. "Because of . . . that other matter. I will, if you think I should."

"You should," Robert answered. "In a few minutes, after we've had a look around. What was he doing when you came in?"

Angela walked across the office to a row of high filing cabinets. "He was here, trying to open this cabinet. The 'L' file."

"For Laskey," Robert noted. "But he didn't succeed?"

"No. We keep the cabinets locked at all times."

"Good for you. And when he saw you, then what?"

"Then he started screaming about you. How he knew that I'd sent you, to spy on him, how he was going to get even with us, he'd destroy this clinic like we were destroying his home. You didn't tell him, did you?"

McCall shook his head, looking around. "No. But we did confront him. He may well have deduced it. Or perhaps he's going around making the same threat to everyone he's had contact with recently. Mickey? Take a good look around, will you?"

"Sure, McCall." Kostmayer was glad to have something to do; even empty, this place gave him the creeps. "What am I looking for?"

"Something that ticks."

"Ah." Mickey speeded up his search considerably.

"You think he brought a bomb in here?" Angela asked with concern.

"I think it's possible, yes," Robert answered. "Mr. Laskey, I learned on the way over, works for a demolition company. It concerns me, in light of the type of threats he's made. We will take a look around, and then we will call the police."

"Michelle," the woman said, "you're sure she's all right?"

"Yes. I saw her, in person. And what's more, I saw her yelling at her father."

"That's a good thing?"

"It's a very good thing," Robert answered. "Children who have reason to fear for their lives do not offer that kind of antagonism. They are quiet, inconspicuous."

"Got it," Mickey called from up the hall.

"Stay here," McCall said, and went to join him.

In the reception area, Kostmayer was just setting the bomb on the counter. He gazed at the thing with undisguised disdain. "This?" he asked.

It was a bomb, of sorts - a loose assembly of construction-grade dynamite, a travel alarm, some wires. "Will it detonate?" McCall asked.

"I doubt it." Mickey examined the thing critically. "I thought you said he worked in demolition. I did better than this in the third grade."

"That explains so much about you, Mickey. I said he worked for a demolition company. He drives a backhoe. Disarm the thing anyhow, will you?"

"Sure." Mickey gathered all the wires and detonators in his hand and yanked. The whole bundle came away cleanly, leaving a pile of explosives taped to a clock. "Done."

"Thank you." Robert went back to the office. "You can call the police now."

# # #

"You have to come see this," his secretary said. Curious, Control left his desk and followed her to the basement. In the observation room to the side of the debriefing room, a crowd of his agents had gathered, watching the proceedings. "Unbelievable," someone said.

In the other room, Lily sat at the end of the conference table facing the one-way mirror, with her Washington-based interrogators at each side of her. She was eating a red sucker as they talked.

Not, Control corrected, exactly eating it. Rather more teasing it to death.

She put the candy-red candy all the way in her mouth and sucked, hard. Opened her mouth, pulled it halfway out, caught it between her pretty white teeth and held it there. Pulled it all the way out with an audible pop. Licked the red juices off her lips. Held the sucker in front of her and lapped at it with just the tip of her red-colored tongue. Turned it sideways, and ran the tongue all the way around the bright red circle, twice. Licked her lips again. Pressed it thoughtfully to her mouth and sucked the saliva off it. And all the while, she answered their questions thoughtfully, completely, innocently. As if she had no idea at all what impact her actions were having.

Dugan and Horwood were trying desperately to maintain their composure - and failing utterly. They stammered, they blushed, they squirmed. And Lily pretended not to notice.

"Why don't they call a break?" one of Control's people wondered out loud.

"They can't walk away from the table," someone else answered.

"Are you kidding? They don't know which way's up at this point."

"Oh, I bet they do."

Control just watched. Not a single expression crossed his face, except perhaps one of grim satisfaction. But behind the mask he ran the through every emotion he owned, from a subtle, possessive pride, to annoyance, to arousal, to despair. Oh, Lily was back. She had turned some corner, somewhere in the night. She had her edge back, her wit, her confidence. Not entirely, of course, but enough to pretend that she did, and that was a start. It was a wonderous change from the broken girl she had been.

But Control could not help wishing that he had been the one to help her make the change, and not Kostmayer. Wishing that he could still at least have been her friend, could have been the one to sleep on her couch when she so painfully needed not to be alone . . .

And he hated that part of him that could be jealous, even now. Why couldn't he just be happy for her?

Dugan finally figured out a way to end his torment. He asked Lily to leave the room. She did, not quickly, toying with her confection all the way to the door. And as the group in the observation room began to break up, she came and stuck her head through the doorway. "She's baaaaack," she announced, waving the sucker.

And her home office greeted her with applause.