REUNIONS

Part II

By Linda Ryner

The evening breeze upon the mountain was soothing -- comforting. Stringfellow Hawke watched as the last remaining sliver of the setting sun disappeared below the tree-line, it's rays gleaming blood-red on the lake; in the distance, the cry of the eagle could be heard. Hawke's mountainside domain was the epitome of peace and tranquility -- something he would never trade to anyone at any price. Now he had St. John back to share it with.

Tet whimpered, sidling up to his master's leg in a bid for attention and Hawke smiled, crouching down to scratch behind the hound's ears. Although the evening was quiet like a lot of other evenings, he sensed an unrest. A few long moments passed before Hawke stood erect and turned toward the cabin.

Inside, Dominic Santini was preparing a hearty repast of trout for Hawke and steaks for St. John, Tet and himself, the strains of a lively little Italian ditty aaccompanying his characteristic banging about in the kitchen and Hawke smiled again, listening as his brother joined in on the chorus of Finniculi, Finnicula. Yes, it was a beautiful evening. But the uneasy feeling he harbored seemed to have no intention of going away. It only reasserted itself more strongly.

"Has Archangel called?" he asked, indicating the closed briefcase phone on the edge of the table. He seated himself at the kitchen counter.

Dom looked up from the stove a moment, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "Nope. You expectin' him to?"

Stringfellow shrugged. "Not exactly."

Frowning, St. John approached him. "You've been a little edgy for the past few days, String."

"Just nerves, I guess. That Bellisarius picture from the other day. Haven't come down from it yet."

"Yeah, I couldn't believe the throttle got stuck," Dominic clucked. "At least we didn't end up in traction like the last time -- or the morgue."

He was referring to an incident that had happened awhile before. The shoot had called for an aerodynamic dive-bomb in a biplane into the roof of a barn that was supposed to have easily-breakable balsa wood on one side. The ensuing screw-up resulted in a small, catastrophic accident because the balsa had been put on the wrong side of the barn.

Hawke chuckled in spite of himself. He got up from the counter and poured himself a glass of wine, then went over to the mantel of the fireplace. The faces in the pictures stared back at him . . . his mother, his father, St. John, Dom, his highschool sweetheart . . . all familiar. All dead. Well, not all. Dom was still there. And St. John was back. Finally and thank God.

St. John suddenly appeared at his elbow, leaning casually against the stone fireplace. "What's really eating you?"

Defiantly, the younger man moved over to the bookshelves where several photo albums were housed and pulled out the one most accessible, leafing through the pages. As he suspected, this one was the most recent, covering the last couple of years or so. Two years ago, he had started to live again, although he still valued and maintained his privacy. He had, in the past months, come out of himself -- and he had no regrets about that. He touched a rare photograph of Michael Coldsmith-Briggs with a thoughtfulness. Even his and Michael's relationship had metamorphosed into that of a strong friendship -- something admitted two or three times over the past couple of years and though unlikely to ever be spoken of much, it had been reaffirmed countless times.

Hawke flipped the page and his eyes came to rest on yet another photo taken about the same time. He touched the edges gently. Jackie stared back at him with an uninhibited smile. It was nice her self-imposed exile was now over. So much wasted time between his two friends, he thought with a little ache. In the hustle to get St. John out of Libya and her relocation to the Los Angeles area, there hadn't been adequate time to get reacquainted. Nevertheless, he sensed the changes in her and couldn't help but feel a bit proud that some of those changes had been due to his guidance.

Then, he suddenly realized that the feeling of uneasiness had increased yet again as he stared at another photo of Michael on the same page. To quell it, he flipped the pages again and the picture slipped out, fluttering to the floor. As he reached down to retrieve it, a wave of vertigo swept over Hawke. Swallowing hard, he shoved the picture loosely inside the album and snapped it shut, as if that would stop the rushing feeling of nausea. A burning pain shot through him and he gasped. After a long moment, he looked up, seeing that both Dom and St. John had been watching him. Dom came over, half-crouching by his side as String sat back in a chair.

"String, what's the matter? You sick?" St. John questioned, grasping his arm in concern.

"Don't worry. I'm fine," Hawke assured him, squelching his heaving stomach's protests with determination.

"You sure you're gonna be OK?" Dom asked, not believing him for a minute.

Hawke shook his head as if to clear it, then leveled his eyes with Dom's. "Just a little sick to my stomach, that's all."

"Sure you're not havin' one of those -- flashes -- again?" Dom pressed gently.

String looked up sharply, then relented. No use denying it. "Yeah. Third day in a row. I find myself looking at -- these pictures. Of Michael. And then I get this really queasy feeling . . ."

"Huh." Dom snorted, rising to his feet again. "Michael's enough to make anyone want to heave their cookies sometimes. He's probably hatching up another mission to send us on with The Lady." Dom's face relaxed, but the concern was still there. "Think you could get a little food down you?"

Hawke managed a smile. "Sure. I'm fine. You're probably right. Archangel must be thinking about us."

String watched as St. John regarded him warily. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was his own intuitive flashes. He might try to pass them off as nothing, but they all knew better. Even as String sat down at the table for dinner and made a great show of being interested, he could see in Dom's eyes the knowledge that he was putting up a facade, and perhaps taking his premonitory flash too lightly.

******************************

Marella looked out over the lights from the window of her plush D.C. apartment. She had done so hundreds of times since taking her job as Head of the Security Task Force at the White House. It had been the third night in a row that she had experienced insomnia -- a condition that was completely alien to her. Along with that insomnia had come a deep feeling of foreboding, an oppression. It made no sense. She had nothing to feel oppressed about. Her work was everything she had dreamt it would be.

Inadvertently, the image of her former boss, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III assaulted her inner senses and she frowned. It wasn't that she'd forgotten him. How could she? They kept in touch, visited each other when time and convenience permitted, sent each other gifts during Christmas and birthday cards. But to think about him now, so totally out of the blue, was puzzling -- and damned disturbing.

She turned away from the window, seating herself on the sofa by the phone. For a long moment, she just stared at it, debating whether or not to pick it up. She reached out indecisively, finally grasping the receiver and dialing into Firm Headquarters at Langley. The night secretary, who knew Marella well, informed her that Michael was at the L.A. office. After only a moment's hesitation, she dialed up and on the third ring, Michael answered.

"This is Michael," came the familiar voice on the other end.

Marella breathed a sigh of relief. "Michael, it's Marella," she said, relaxing.

"Marella!" There was genuine pleasure in his voice. "It's good to hear from you! How are you?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. "What about you?"

"Better than fine. I have good friends like you calling me up once in awhile and -- Jackie's back. She just moved out here two weeks ago, lock, stock and barrel."

"That's wonderful!" Marella enthused, a bit surprised. "How is she?"

"My former goddaughter is all grown up, has her head on straight and is sexier than ever. So what's up? You gonna ditch your job at the White House and come back here, I hope?"

His former operative had to smile. "Sorry to disappoint you, Michael. I just called . . . well, I was just . . . I wanted to make sure you were all right."

There was a moment of silence. "Are you and Stringfellow conspiring?" Michael queried in good humor. "He just called me about an hour ago, inquiring about my health and well-being."

"You're kidding."

"Yeah, surprised me, too. If it makes you feel any better," Michael growled good-naturedly, "I've quit smoking my cigars, my cholesterol level is down to one-eight-nine, my triglycerides are almost normal and I work out three or four times a week."

Marella smiled again at his tone. "I'm glad you're taking a more sensible interest in your health," she replied, not missing a beat.

"So is my doctor," he countered sourly.

"Well, then . . . I guess I'll let you go," Marella told him lamely. "You can call me a mother hen if you want to, Michael, but I kept thinking about you tonight. I needed to know you were all right."

There was another marked pause. "Funny you should say that. That's almost exactly what Hawke said earlier."

Marella frowned and the uneasiness she thought would be put to rest returned. "Then -- maybe whatever project you're working on should be handled with extreme caution, Michael."

"I'm working on nothing definitive at the moment," the Deputy Director informed her. "In fact, I was seriously thinking about a bit of a vacation with Jackie."

"Take it," Marella encouraged immediately.

"I plan to." There was a third pause. "You take care of yourself, my girl."

"Always, Michael," Marella answered. "Follow your own advice."

Part of her was relieved when she hung up the phone, but part of her was still apprehensive. Marella stared ahead out of the window pensively, mind trying to analyze her discontent. Hawke contacting Archangel for the same reason the same day was surprising. If Hawke was bothered enough to call Michael to make sure he was OK . . .

She sighed in frustration, pouring herself a snifter of brandy. For the first time in nearly six months, the lights of the city outside seemed cold.

******************************

Hawke sprang up in bed in a cold sweat, feeling as if he had run a marathon. He sank back against the pillows, each breath slicing like a knife through his vitals. After a moment, his breathing regularized; carefully, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, one arm going around his middle.

The nightmare had seemed so real. He had been walking through thick woods, looking for Michael, knowing he was near, but unable to find him. Panic had suffused him and he had begun to run, calling the Deputy Director by name, afraid that he would be too late . . .

Too late. For what?

String held his head in his hands for a long moment, then whipped off the covers. He quickly went downstairs and set up the briefcase with the phone inside, punching in the numbers to Michael's private line at the ranch. The other end was picked up by the second ring.

"Hello?" came Michael's rather harsh voice.

"Michael, it's Hawke," he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

"Hawke? It's . . ." He paused. ". . . not quite three in the morning. What's wrong?"

"That's just what I was going to ask you," Hawke returned slowly. "Are you all right?"

Michael snorted. "I'm hunky-dory! What is this, anyway? First you, then Marella and now you again, all in the same night!"

"Marella called?" Hawke asked, eyebrows raising.

"About an hour after your first call," he confirmed. "Hold on, Jackie just walked in here. Don't hang up." The almost full minute that ensued dragged by. Finally, Michael came back on. "Jackie just woke up with a bad nightmare about me being in trouble. You're all beginning to spook me."

"Look . . . just be extra-careful, will you?"

Michael sighed. "I told Marella earlier and Jackie just now, so I'll tell you. For once, things are slack enough in my department that I'm going to take advantage of it and take a vacation with Jackie."

"You're welcome up at the cabin anytime," Hawke told him readily.

"I haven't thought about a destination," Michael admitted. "But thanks for the invitation -- and the concern. I was thinking of something a little more exotic."

"Just know the cabin's always here and it's a standing invitation," Hawke said, then smiled a little. "And you don't need to call ahead to make a reservation, either."

He was rewarded with Michael's chuckle. "Yeah, but the room service sucks."

"Oh, well. You want gorgeous surroundings or lackey service?" His tone grew serious. "Be careful, Michael."

"I will. Do the same, huh?"

"Always."

Stringfellow sat at the table for a long time after hanging up the phone. Michael seemed to be fine. But there was something -- something didn't feel right. And now Jackie was feeling it, too, along with him and Marella. The conversation he'd just had with Michael had done nothing to alleviate his worry.

"Yo, String, you OK?" St. John came out of the spare bedroom, concern plainly written on his somewhat less-haggard features. "Couldn't sleep. I was reading in bed. Thought I heard you talking to somebody."

String closed up the briefcase housing the telephone and stared ahead disconsolantly, unable to answer his brother's question. He stared into the dying embers of the fireplace for long moments, chewing on his hand. St. John quietly joined him, touching him lightly on the arm.

"You're having those flashes of yours again, aren't you?" his older sibling prodded gently. "Don't try to talk your way out, little brother, I know better."

String took his hand away from his mouth, drumming his fingers on the table. "Like I told you earlier. It's . . . a feeling. Now I'm having nightmares."

"About . . .?"

"About Michael." He met St. John's eyes. "St. John -- I don't believe in ESP."

"Sure you do. It just scares the hell out of you, that's all," St. John replied calmly. "Did you talk to Michael, then?"

Stringfellow nodded. "Yeah, and I'm sure he thinks I'm an old mother hen. He's probably right, too."

"Do you perceive Michael as being in danger?"

Again, String nodded. "And there's nothing I can do about it. No way I can stop it."

"You told him to be careful when you talked to him, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I told him."

"Well, then, you've done all that's humanly possible for the time being," St. John told him logically. "Until you have something more concrete to go on, that's all you can do. Right?"

Stringfellow nodded a third time. "I guess so."

"So you have to content yourself with that. C'mon. Get back to bed."

Stringfellow lay on the cool sheets for some time afterward, still bothered, almost afraid of falling asleep lest he dream the same nightmare. He was glad St. John had come out to talk sense to him. It reminded him of old times. Whenever he'd been troubled, St. John had always been there to talk to, to hash things out with.

After everything Michael had done for him -- for St. John -- String couldn't let anything happen to the Deputy Director. He was beginning to realize just how deep his friendship with the master spy was running. But until something more solid materialized, String knew St. John was right. There was simply no more to be done.

And, to coin a phrase from Dominic, it stunk.

******************************

When Jackie woke early the next morning, she was wide awake, but still on edge. She crept out of bed and opened Michael's door just a crack. At six-thirty, he was still sleeping, an unusual thing for Michael, because he was usually up at dawn to go riding before readying himself to report to the L.A. office. She pulled on a robe and wandered out into the kitchen, starting the coffee-maker, then opening the refrigerator, taking items out and setting to work making Eggs Benedict and homemade hashbrowns. By the time the Hollandaise was simmering and thick, she heard Michael come out of the bedroom and sit at the counter. She poured him a big mug of coffee and saw he was dressed in white jeans and a polo shirt.

"I was going to bring you breakfast in bed," she told him, dishing up the muffins with the eggs and Canadian bacon, topping them with the other half of the muffins and then spreading the Hollandaise generously over them.

Michael smiled. "You making breakfast is quite enough. You're not my slave."

"No, I'm not. But I like making you breakfast because you appreciate it." She dished up the remainder of the sauce in a bowl and put it in front of him, then turned to pour both him and herself glasses of orange juice.

"I most certainly do." Michael grabbed the tie to her robe and pulled her toward him. The robe came open, revealing a red silk nightshirt that barely hid her curves. His smile deepened as his arms went around her. "Almost as much as I appreciate the fact you're wearing next-to-nothing at the moment."

She laughed. "Michael, your breakfast is getting cold."

"What a shame." His tone told her he thought it was anything but a shame.

Jackie had to smile her pleasure. "What, are you going to seduce me right here in the kitchen?"

"No, too much chance of my ranch hands walking in here at this hour." He placed a chaste kiss on her lips. "Will you do me a big favor today?"

"You know I will."

"Rosa won't be coming in, it's her sister's birthday, and I gave her the day off. Could I rely on you to feed the boys -- breakfast around nine and lunch around two or three? You know what they like -- and they love your cooking. There's turkey and ham in the fridge and Swiss cheese. There's also ground beef for chili or chicken stock for vegetable soup."

"No problem, Michael. You won't be late tonight, will you?"

"Short of a national disaster, I don't expect to be. Why?"

"Why don't I fry up some chicken for tonight? We can picnic in front of the fireplace, put on some jazz and get drunk on that wonderful Perrier Jouet you have."

"Sounds wonderful, but won't you be tired of cooking all day?"

"There's not much to get ready. Dom doesn't need me today, so I have plenty of time on my hands."

"Well, then. I guess we have a date." He gave her another kiss before beginning on breakfast.

After promising to be home no later than six-thirty, Michael climbed into the waiting limousine. Jackie smiled to herself, thinking how she liked waking up in the same house with him and found herself wondering how it would feel to wake up in the same bed. The smile faded when a sliver of uneasiness worked its way into her mind.

She was still frowning when she brought out the griddle and began to mix batter for flapjacks for the ranch hands.

******************************

Michael Coldsmith-Briggs switched on his light as the lengthening shadows entered his office window. It wasn't dark yet, but he was already going to be late for Jackie's planned dinner. He'd called to tell her that and she'd assured him it was no problem.

"Just get here when you can. I miss you," she told him wistfully.

That, he knew, was half the battle won. To find a woman who understood she had to share him with his work. Who could adapt to his ever-changing schedule and unexpected and sometimes long absences. Jackie's employment under his direction had prepared her for that kind of life, so he didn't feel nearly as guilty as he might have.

But the Deputy Director's mind was on more than work and on a quiet night at the ranch with Jackie. Marella's and Hawke's phone calls had bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Hawke had an uncanny sense of knowing things ahead of time on occasion, though the troubled pilot's acceptance of ESP was all but non-existent. Michael could understand that. He was not prone to believing in such things himself, but on occasion, there had been things -- incidents in his life -- that couldn't be explained away. Having been located by a psychic during the Fortuneteller incident had made him a bit more acquiescent to the notion, and it was mainly because of this he made a mental note to exercise an extra measure of caution in all his activities.

His gaze fell upon the contents of his open briefcase and an overstuffed, mint-green, business-sized envelope caught his eye. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, mind flipping towards thoughts of Jackie. It was still unsealed and he extracted the pages from it.

It had been one hell of a year, he thought to himself. Numerous missions, a lot of soul-searching, some heartache. Though his headquarters were in Virginia, Michael considered L.A. his home. His relationship with Dom and Hawke had deepened in the last few months. He'd even spent some time up at Hawke's cabin on occasion, when the pilot was conveniently off filming on location or gone for some other reason. It had given him time to reflect. On the rare occasions he held conversations of a personal nature with Hawke, he'd come away feeling better. Which had facilitated him writing The Letter.

He'd started composing it up at Hawke's cabin about four months ago and had just recently finished it. Authoring such a document had been a big step for him. He was about to reveal most of his thoughts and fears, some past sins, some deep-rooted beliefs and feelings. Not least of all had been an assessment of his and Jackie's relationship as he saw it and how to best begin their adult liaison. If Jackie could wade through this letter, make sense of it, understand it and agree to it, then they had a damn good chance of making their relationship work.

There had been times when he seriously thought about just chucking The Firm altogether. It had taken so much out of him over the years. But every time he thought he'd actually do it, he couldn't. The work was too important to him. It meant too much to too many people. And until he groomed another candidate for top placement in his division, he couldn't quit. A Deputy Director had to be appointed. Marella had been his singular protegee after Gabrielle's death. Then, she'd left when a plum job opening at the White House was offered. A friend of hers who was on staff recommended her strongly and he'd been aware she'd wrestled with it. Finally, to take the stress off of her, Michael told her she'd be a fool to turn it down. If she ever decided the job wasn't for her, she had a place with him, no questions asked. So, she'd taken it. And so far, it had been working out for her.

Perhaps the biggest blow he had suffered was Maria -- one of three major loves in his life. He had lived through her death twice within a forty-eight hour period. She'd betrayed him, nearly gotten him killed. Would have killed him if String hadn't killed her first. The attempt to break her out of the Eastern Bloc had ended up in betrayal and usury by his former lover. This being so fresh, it had been anything but an easy decision to allow Jackie into his life in that capacity. Yet, whenever he had doubts, he couldn't imagine life without her. He didn't even want to.

Michael folded the pages back up and restuffed the envelope. He wouldn't give it to her tonight. He didn't want to spoil the evening with heavy reading. He might even make the first move with her, pondering the wisdom of it before presenting her with The Letter. However, he reasoned, if she read it after they made love, she might understand the importance of the contents better. After replacing the missive, Michael closed his briefcase and left the office, very calm, and looking forward to the evening.

******************************

Jackie looked over the indoor picnic setting with a critical eye. She wanted everything to be perfect; Michael had been in a frisky mood that morning and she wanted to be prepared if he was still so inclined. She bit her lip, brow furrowing, never remembering being so apprehensive.

Their relationship as a couple was developing slowly -- and that was good, she decided. They needed to test the waters before jumping in. Things had developed naturally so far. They were becoming comfortable with each other once more. They had never played games, there was never any need. Even their misunderstandings weren't misunderstandings for very long. They had always been able to talk. The best of friends for so long. Now -- almost lovers.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, lending a warmth throughout the sunken living room. She had removed the coffeetable, piled pillows before the sofa, laid out a white and red checkered tablecloth. There was a basket of fruit, a wheel of buttery baby Swiss and a bottle of the Jouet chilling in an ice bucket. The chicken was simmering in the electric frying pan and the hot German potato salad was waiting in a container on the kitchen counter. Tomatoes alternating with slices of cucumber was chilling in the refrigerator and crescent rolls were keeping warm in the oven. Her end was ready. Now, if Michael would just walk in the door . . .

As if in answer to her unspoken wish, she heard the limo pull up the drive out front. Jackie was in Michael's arms almost the moment he crossed the threshold.

"I'm glad you're home." Her voice was muffled in his jacket as she hugged him.

"Wow. What a greeting." His arms slipped around her and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I think I'll be late all the time." He turned her face up and smiled down at her. "Something smells great. I think it's you."

She kissed him lightly on the lips. "If it is me, it's because I've been working around food all day." She took his rosewood cane and hung it up on the coatrack, following with his hat. Then, she took his hand. "C'mon. Everything's ready, I just have to bring it out here." She indicated the fireplace. "Would you rather we ate at the table?"

"No. This is perfect. I might have to have you help me back up afterwards, but I wouldn't dream of putting a damper on this."

"You sure? If you'd be more comfortable . . ."

"Jackie, I'm fine. If my leg gives me trouble, I'll sit on the sofa."

"OK. If you'll open the Jouet, I'll bring the rest of the food out."

Jackie liked seeing him relax. She always worried about his stress level, although at times, he seemed to thrive on it. That, coupled with the frequent dining out he did at restaurants notorious for serving meals laden with vein-clogging cholesterol made her promise to herself that she would start cooking a bit healthier for both of them.

Within moments, they were feasting on the chicken and Michael was complimenting her culinary artistry. She smiled in amusement. "It's fried chicken, Michael. You can't ruin that."

"My sweet angel, you have a way of pulling together a picnic supper fit for a king," he insisted. "I love it when you cook for me."

"Speaking of which, Dom finally gave me ALL the ingredients to his lasagna recipe, so I'm going to make it Friday and the whole gang's coming over to taste-test it. Will you be home?"

"No idea. I probably won't know until that day, sweetheart."

"I hope you can be here, but if you can't, you can't," she said, rather pragmatically, even though she knew she'd be disappointed if he wasn't able to join them. She placed a light kiss on his lips. "Just so you know what you'll miss out on if you can't."

"Mmm. Give me another greasy kiss like that."

She complied happily. She started when he unexpectedly slipped his tongue into her mouth and pulled away a little self-consciously, then smiled and looked down. He reached out a hand to take her chin, then leaned in, kissing her hard, tongue forcing itself into her mouth. An electric jolt seemed to go through her and Jackie suddenly launched herself into his arms, returning the caress with passion. Abruptly, she pulled away again. Michael licked his lips, watching her steadily. Unable to meet his gaze, Jackie rose hastily to her feet.

"Nature call," she murmured, quickly disappearing into the bathroom.

Inside, she faced herself in the mirror. She had high color in her cheeks and could feel her body ache. What she had been wanting to happen for years was about to take place. So why the hell was she scared to death?

"Jackie?" There was a knock on the bathroom door. "Jackie, come out. Let's . . . get a few things squared away, shall we?" His voice was the essence of calm.

"Squared away?" She bit her lip, then just about died with mortification. She'd all but run out of the room! //Smooth move, you idiot!// she thought frantically. //Things were just getting good and you run away!//

"Like why you just ran out on me."

She flinched.

"Jackie?" There was a pause. "I'd really rather not talk to you through the door."

"Just a minute." When she opened it a moment later, Michael was leaning against the doorframe.

"Let's talk." He took her hand in his, leading her back out to the sofa. He offered her her glass of unfinished Jouet and took his in hand also; then he draped an arm familiarly around her shoulders. They sat quietly for a few minutes, drinking in the firelight. Michael's voice was quiet when he spoke. "Tell me what's bothering you."

"Nothing." She took a sip of the champagne.

"Then why are you so skittish? Why did you pull away from me?"

She sighed, closing her eyes. "I don't know, Michael. It's not you." She shook her head. "Maybe . . . I'm still clinging to the safety of our former relationship."

"You mean . . . where you didn't have to worry about my actions and emotions going much beyond the limits of a dutch uncle."

"Something like that."

"And now that I'm demonstrating the emotions and needs of a man wanting a woman, you feel threatened by that."

"Not threatened. Maybe a little scared. Definitely overwhelmed."

He breathed out softly. "Jackie, I know you want me. It's in the way you touch me. It's in your eyes." He played with a tendril of her hair.

Her eyes met his. She placed her glass of champagne on the end table and leaned over to him, lips warm and supple under his, open and moist, even probing. She felt his hand on her face and leaned into the kiss even more. Michael's lips moved over hers, teasing, caressing.

"Still frightened?" he whispered against her mouth.

"Scared to death," she replied, slipping her arms up his back and kissing him again, body molding tightly into his.

Michael was breathing hard when he looked down at her. "Jackie . . ." Her hands went to the buttons on his shirt, unfastening them. "You're sure you're ready?"

"I'm scared, but I'm ready."

"Don't be frightened, sweetheart. I love you." He pulled the knit top from her jeans, hands burrowing beneath the fabric to caress her skin.

The phone rang and Jackie's head dropped back in annoyance.

"Let it ring," Michael advised, fingers going to the hooks on the back of her bra.

"This is Delia," came the operative's voice over to them. "If Michael's there, Jackie, please have him pick up. If you're out and you get this message when you get back and he's with you, please . . ."

Jackie got up and grabbed the receiver. "Hello, Delia. He's here. Hold on."

Michael joined her, reluctantly taking the phone and giving Jackie an irked glance. "Yes, Delia."

Jackie went back to the sofa and sipped on the champagne. About two minutes later, Michael approached her.

"Well, I have to go back to the office. Zeus is calling an impromptu meeting and I have to be there. I might as well catch up on some paperwork afterwards."

"I'll run you in," she told him softly.

"I don't have anything pressing tomorrow. Maybe . . ."

She grabbed her jacket from a chair. "Maybe," she interrupted playfully, "if you can give me sufficient motivation to wake up, we can pick up where we left off."

Michael smiled. "And what if you receive a worn-out, tired, middle-aged spy in your bed? What then?"

"Well, at least I know you'll be dreaming of me, won't I?"

He grinned as she took his hand and pulled him out the door.

******************************

It was after two a.m. when Michael closed his briefcase, readying himself to leave the office. The meeting had actually been relatively short, giving him plenty of time to get at some of the quickly-growing stacks in his in-box. Now that he had Jackie to come home to, he noticed the long hours more than he did before. He fiddled with the idea of simply asking her to move in with him, to forget purchasing the beach house unless she'd like it for a second home. Let The Committee think what they would. Let the public shake their heads and smirk. It wasn't so unusual for an older man and younger woman to shack up, no matter what they did for a living. But, he quickly realized, not everyone was in government. While Michael had no aspirations to reach any higher in position than he was already, he knew it was a stupid move to be caught in any impropriety, considering the political circles he traveled in. Besides, having Jackie stay at her own place was a comfortable safety zone for them both. Although rooted strongly in their past relationship, their current one was still a supple, easily-breakable sapling that needed time and room to breathe and grow.

Halfway down the corridor, he realized he'd forgotten a file and made a u-turn at the elevator, retracing his steps back to the office. He passed the computer room and slowed, frowning, hearing the hum of a computer printer having been left on and running -- a significant safety breach. He didn't remember any of his operatives informing him or Sam about working late. He pursed his lips, wondering if it might be one of the several new recruits recently acquired trying to score brownie points off the clock. He found the door open a crack and pushed it inward. A computer screen glowed greenly back at him and he groped for the light switch on the left side of the door.

Brightness filled the room and his gaze fell upon a stark, black figure, bending over the console, fingers paused in mid-air over the keyboard. Michael's eye widened and he jerked around, pulling his gun from his holster; he vaguely recognized the intruder, but couldn't immediately place him. The black-clad figure grabbed the gun on the console near him and fired. Michael gasped as he felt the piece of hot metal sear into his abdomen and for a moment, only a blinding white light of pain became his reality. He slammed against the wall, aware that he was sliding down in a crumpled heap. Through a haze of agony, he watched as the dark figure grabbed the printout coming from the printer, tearing it off quickly to fold haphazardly under his arm.

Sucking in a breath, Michael willed himself to grip the gun still in his hand. With a herculean effort, he leveled it, hand steady, just as the ominous personage turned to retreat. The sound of blaring klaxons filled the atmosphere as Michael hit the alarm button with his free hand, but were lost upon him as his finger whitened on the trigger. The shot was clean and precise, but it was a fluke. Michael had only intended to wound, but the intruder had positioned himself in such a way that a flowering spot of red appeared roughly half an inch above the bridge of his nose. The ensuing explosion of skull and brain painted itself on the opposite wall and his eyes widened. Abruptly, he dropped to the floor, blood staining the white pages of the printout as it fell under him.

Michael breathed a sigh of relief, the burning trail of the bullet a dull agony in his vitals. The last thing he remembered was Sam's face above him, a vision that became blurred as he sank into oblivion.

******************************

Jackie shot up abruptly in bed, freezing with fear, hair plastered to her head in stringy, wet strands. She shivered and rubbed her arms, flexing uncomfortably against the soaking sheets of the bed.

"Michael?" she called automatically. "Michael, are you here? Are you home?"

The ranch house was silent. But something felt wrong. Was there an intruder in the house? As she reached for her gun from the drawer in her nightstand, the phone rang shrilly by the bed. She jumped about a foot, then grabbed the receiver, almost knocking the entire phone to the floor.

"Yeah . . . what?" she asked crossly.

"Jackie, it's Cait."

The tone of Cait's voice was not lost upon her. "Cait, what is it?"

"Michael's been flown to Galen's Keep in Hemet. He's been shot."

Jackie sprang to her feet, stubbing her toe on the nightstand. "What?!"

"At Knightsbridge. He caught someone trying to steal information off the computers," Caitlin told her, and Jackie could tell the other woman was fighting to stay calm. "Whoever it was shot him."

"How bad?"

"Bad enough. Meet me at Santini Air? We'll take one of the Jetrangers. Dom and String are already gone. I told them I'd get hold of you."

"Yeah. Yeah, meet you there. Half an hour."

Jackie put the phone down and then started throwing her clothes on. As she systematically dressed and gathered up her purse and keys, she stemmed the desire to cry and scream. Somehow, all the people closest to Michael had a premonition about this. She gritted her teeth angrily.

Then why the hell hadn't they acted on it?

******************************

Dominic Santini drank his third cup of coffee, bleary-eyed from his lonesome vigil in the waiting room off the CCU. He was glad Caitlin would be coming in soon with Jackie. Michael had been taken straight into surgery and would soon be placed in a private room; the staff had refused to let either him or String see him yet. Samantha, Michael's operative, had her hands full dealing with the numerous phone calls and barking orders in a way that reminded the older man of Michael in combat mode.

"Dom!" He turned to see a lovely, dark woman half-running down the corridor. It took him a moment before he realized it was Marella. She touched Dom's arm when she reached him.

"How the heck did you get here from Washington so fast?" Dom asked, sweeping the woman in a heartfelt hug.

"Sam has my beeper number. She called me as I was on my way out of New Mexico. So I diverted the government jet to drop me here. Is Michael all right?"

Dom's face was grim, but he nodded. "Came through the surgery with no complications. He's doing good, Marella. In fact, the nurse at the station told me he regained consciousness a little when they wheeled him out."

"But what happened?" Marella insisted.

Dom settled her down and explained quickly all he knew. When he finished, Marella rubbed her eyes and sniffed, accepting a handkerchief that Dom provided. After she calmed, she said, "I knew I shouldn't have left my post with Michael. It was a stupid thing to do."

"Hey, hey, don't blame yourself for this," Dom comforted gently. "You aren't a fortuneteller. You couldn't have known. It probably wouldn't have made a difference anway. Becoming head of the security task force at the White House wasn't exactly something you could turn down, was it?"

"Not at the time," Marella admitted. "But . . . I owe Michael so much. I should have stayed with him . . ."

"Michael wouldn't want you being his grateful little shadow all your life. That's why he cut you loose, and you know it."

"Yeah. I know." She sighed, wiping at her eyes again. "Look at me, I'm a mess." She suddenly looked up at the Italian man. "Jackie . . .? Is she here? Does she know? Michael said . . ."

"Cait's bringing her in now. String and St. John are down in the cafeteria for a minute to grab a bite and get some fresh coffee."

"That's right. I heart about you getting St. John back," Marella said softly. "I'm glad." She paused a moment and sighed. "Who shot Michael? Do we know anything yet?"

Dom picked up his half-cold cup of coffee and took a drink, never minding the bitterness. Quickly, he told Marella about String's dreams and intuitive flashes.

"Sam said something about someone breaking into the computer area at Knightsbridge and trying to steal a printout. I don't know much more, she seemed reluctant to tell a whole lot. But as soon as Michael is in any shape to talk, she wanted us to let her know, if she wasn't here."

"Has she informed The Committee about what's happened yet?"

Dom shook his head. "Went out of her way not to let The Committee know about it, although I don't see how they can't -- they can find anything out if they really want to. And Zeus has been on Michael's butt for ages. I think it's a project Michael's involved with that The Committee doesn't know about. At least, that's what it smells like."

"No hints at all, huh?"

"Nope," Dom replied. "Sam was pretty closed-mouthed."

Marella bit down on her lip, assessing the older man critically. "Then -- if it's nothing to do with Airwolf as far as you know -- why are you guys all here? Why did Sam call you and Hawke?"

"Because," Dom said evenly, eyes never leaving the former operative's face. His words held no apology. "Michael needed us."

******************************

It was just after five a.m. when Cait and Jackie walked into the waiting room. Jackie was steaming because she'd been told to wait until Michael was settled in his room. Stringfellow took her by the shoulders and guided her away, promising he would hover outside until they had him tucked in. After that, he would come to get her. She was reluctantly satisfied with that, so she and Cait kept Dom, Marella and St. John company. Cait wanted to put a comforting arm around her but had the distinct feeling the other woman didn't want to be touched. Jackie's pallor bothered Cait. She was light-skinned anyway, but now she was extremely pale.

"Hey," Cait told her, reaching across to risk lightly touching her hand after some uncomfortable moments of silence. "We're all worried about him, Jackie. Don't feel alone."

Jackie looked over at her, snapping out of her reverie, managing a small, grateful smile. "I know you are. And I love you all for it."

"We've never really had a chance to get to know each other," St. John said, exchanging a look with Cait. "After we got back, we sort of got engrossed in our own little worlds . . ."

"That's to be expected," Jackie interrupted. "Don't apologize. You needed to get reacquainted with String and with Dom and to get to know Cait. I needed to . . ." She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "I needed to get back on track with Michael. It's a matter of priorities." She stopped. "Besides. You're here when it counts."

"He was there for us," Dom said quietly. "Fair is fair."

"We're not here because we owe him, Dom," Cait reminded him, "although that would be reason enough."

"Do I understand right that Michael is your godfather?" St. John directed to Jackie, leaning forward on his knees, attempting a little small talk.

"Was." Jackie sighed. "He stopped being that when I turned twenty-five. He's always treated me like I was his own . . ." Cait did not miss the break in her voice, ". . . daughter."

"I suppose since he never had any kids of his own . . ." Cait offered hesitantly. "Must have been a natural reaction to want to be that to you."

"It was very natural." A huskiness crept into her voice. "Michael would have been a wonderful father."

"Would have?" Dom queried quietly.

"Yeah. Michael can't be so ancient as to abandon all hope of fatherhood if he wants it," St. John added. "He can't be that old."

"He's not," Jackie replied distractedly. Her voice caught and she lowered her head, fingers trembling when she reached up to brush her nose. Cait wished she could do something to alleviate the pain of this ordeal for her.

There was another small silence. Then, St. John traced a finger down the top of her hand. "Jackie, don't you feel alone. We're all here -- for you and Michael." He paused. "You remind me a lot of String when he was a kid." Her eyes flew up to his and St. John stopped mid-sentence. "What I meant," he amended, "was that you remind me of him when he was younger. You're strong and resilient. I can see why String thinks so much of you."

"I'm a cream puff. He didn't tell you about my nervous breakdown?"

"He said you had some things to work out."

"Now that's diplomacy. There's a lot he didn't tell you."

Dom chuckled. "Think String should try for that position in the U.N., Jacks?"

Jackie chortled in spite of herself. "Yeah, that'll happen." She took a drink of cold coffee.

"String mentioned you guys were sort of close," St. John offered carefully. "That you were up to the cabin all the time."

"We had a common history," Jackie answered. "That was initially what brought us together, I think. He's a great friend. The . . . big brother I never had and wanted so bad."

The echo of a double pair of footfalls were heard turning into the lounge area and Stringfellow Hawke along with one of the doctors, joined them.

Jackie was immediately on her feet."I want to see him. Now."

"In a minute, Jacks." Stringfellow pulled her back down into her chair. "This is Dr. Werner, the surgeon."

"You've performed miracles on Michael before," Jackie acknowledged, reaching over to shake his hand. "I'm glad it was you at his side, Doctor."

The bearded, balding man adjusted his glasses as he shook Jackie's hand. "Yes, I remember you during the Red Star incident. We couldn't pry you away from Michael's side." He smiled understandingly. "Well, the bullet was lodged in the gallbladder. He suffered no major damage to any arteries, by an incredible stroke of luck. It only tore up the gallbladder itself. Instead of attempting repairs, we removed the organ, since it seemed simpler and more expedient to both the patient and myself. The liver can take over the gallbladder's function. He might have to adjust his diet -- I know how he likes those rich foods. We've placed him postoperatively in CCU, of course. We'll adjust his condition status as appropriate, eventually get him on the medical floor if everything looks all right. He's already stabilizing. Everything looks very, very good."

"Mr. Hawke? Mr. Santini?"

All heads turned toward the doorway. A white-clad operative with dark hair and the usual gorgeous figure stood tentatively inside. She looked a little windblown and there were dark circles under her lovely blue eyes, but like all of Michael's operatives, there was no doubt of her capabilities under stress. Her eyes widened when she took note of Marella's presence.

"Good to see you!" Samantha greeted, giving her a hug. Then, she looked anxiously from face to face. "How is Michael?"

"He's doing all right," Dr. Werner informed her. "He's alive and in marvelous shape for a man in his profession. He'll pull out of this in no time, no sweat."

"No sweat?" Jackie repeated. Her control was beginning to slip. "He takes a bullet in the gut and it's no sweat?" Her eyes suddenly blazed with pent-up fury. "Who did it? Was he caught?"

"An operative who worked for The Firm in the computer area," Samantha answered, voice even in the face of Jackie's undisguised anger. "But he wasn't who he said he was. His identity was damn near perfection -- he was rooted deep."

"I want him," Jackie hissed dangerously. "And after I tear his balls off, I want a piano wire to finish the job."

"You're too late," Sam informed her quietly. "Michael took him out before he lost consciousness."

"There's a body to prove it?" she demanded tersely.

"In the morgue here if you want to see it," the operative confirmed.

"Pass." She stood still for a moment. "When can we go in to see him?" she asked the doctor anxiously.

Werner pursed his lips. "Well, you're familiar with my preferences. He's not conscious right now. I've got him on a Morphine drip for the pain." He hesitated. "OK -- one at a time, ten minutes at a time, every two hours. No more. At least until we've got him upgraded as far as stability."

Jackie nodded and turned to String. "You go in first."

String shook his head. "Nope. You first. We can wait."

Jackie grabbed his shirtsleeve and pulled him away from the others. When she was satisfied they were out of earshot, she looked up at him.

"No. I want you to go see him first. He may not be conscious, but I know he'll know you're there if you talk to him. He knows I'll always be here for him. He needs you with him. Michael's got to know he's got other people pulling for him, not just me. He needs you. Dom. Marella. Cait."

Hawke looked down at her for a long moment. "You sure?"

"I'm positive. Please, String. Do this for him."

Tentatively, String lifted a hand to brush her hair back. "You're quite a lady, Jacks."

"I've had the best teachers," she answered resolutely.

******************************

Hawke slowly entered the CCU unit Michael was in. Places like this always made him freeze up inside. They seemed to sterile and impersonal. The Mylanta-blue catheter hung on the bedrail, an oxygen unit was on one side, an IV unit on the other and a cardiac monitor. Hawke pulled up a chair by the bed, concern and worry in his face evident. It ripped his guts out to see Michael like this -- helpless, unable to do for himself. It was more than an indignity, it was an obscenity. After a moment, Hawke slid his hand through the siderail bars to grasp Michael's.

"You heal up, do you hear me?" the pilot growled in a menacing tone. "You heal, damn it. I don't need another statistic in my life. Not you."

String swallowed. He'd always taken for granted that Archangel would be there, no matter what, looking over his shoulder and prodding him into missions that he knew he didn't want to do, but that he would do -- not just for the sake of national or international security. They'd become too good of friends for him to feel like it was a mere matter of usury on both sides. The pilot's clouded mind began to clear and he started to loosen his grip, but not before he thought he felt a slight pressure. He looked at the haggard face nestled on the pillows and drew back in surprise. Michael's eye was open.

" . . . Hawke . . ."

"Here, Michael." Hawke's voice was quiet, but strong. "I'm here. We're all here. All of us."

Within another few minutes, Michael drifted back into sleep, seemingly content, and Hawke loosed his hand reluctantly awhile later. He returned to the waiting area and gave everyone a wan smile.

"He came out of it for a few seconds," he offered, watching the collective sigh of relief ripple thorugh. "He was coherent enough he called my name. Knew I was there."

Dom grinned ear-to-ear and chuckled. "Knew he was too ornery to die young."

******************************

Caitlin could barely keep her eyes open, even drinking the hospital coffee guaranteed to stand up by itself without a cup. St. John sat across from her in the almost-abandoned cafeteria, making an attempt to keep up the conversation. He was a little worried about the dark circles beginning to ring her eyes. He leaned across the table to her.

"Hey, if you're real tired, let me take you home," he said gently. "There's nothing more you can really do here."

A little startled by his closeness, Cait leaned back, then shook her head. "No. I want to stay. I should be all right with a little more coffee."

"I'll go get you another cup." St. John rose, returning a few moments later with another steaming cup. "You really should lay down for a little while, Caitlin."

"I look that bad, huh?" she queried, with a lop-sided grin.

"No, you look great, but you also look dead tired," he told her. "I think you owe it to yourself to take it easy -- at least put your feet up and rest."

"Really, I'm OK," she assured him, gratefully taking the cup of coffee in her hands. "I want to stay for awhile longer."

St. John sat back in his chair, contemplating the perky redhead he'd been dating off and on since coming back home. He'd grown very fond of her over that time. "Tell me, does Michael realize just how lucky he is having friends like all of you?"

She managed a sleepy chuckle. "Well, if he doesn't, I'll make sure to remind him when he wakes up."

"Can I ask you something personal?" St. John queried, regaining some of his inherent intensity.

Cait's eyes flew up to meet his and he could see the slight flush at her cheeks. "Won't promise to answer," she replied a bit cautiously.

"What is Michael to you? I sort of understand the relationship he has with String and Dom, but what about you? Why are you here?"

"Because he's my friend," Cait said, surprised. "He doesn't have many of them, St. John. What few he has, he needs very much. I owe that man my life."

"Your life?"

Hesitantly, Cait recounted her past history with Ken Sawyer, former head of security for the Go-Co outfit entwined with The Firm. The stealing of some nuclear detonation triggering devices had been his inside job and he had used Caitlin as bait for use of Airwolf, so he could get the devices out of the country. Michael had thankfully found her in time and through concerted efforts, the bomb that had been strapped to her had been successfully jammed. By the time she'd finished the story, St. John was both impressed and shocked.

"I can see why you feel you need to be here," he acknowledged, softly. "And I can see why String and Dom think so much of him."

Cait smiled a little. "Sometimes they all put on such a show of disliking each other, but we all know what bull it is."

"I still think you need to rest," he told her insistently. "Let's go back upstairs and see how everything's going. Then I want you to promise me you'll lay down on the sofa in the visitor's lounge."

She gave him an almost-irritated glance, then relented. "OK. But only if you promise to let me know if there's any change in Michael's condition."

"Indian scout's honor," he pledged as they got up from the table and made their way toward the elevators.

******************************

It was going on ten a.m. when Jackie slipped by the nursing desk and into Michael's room for her illicitly-timed visit. She just couldn't wait another hour, she had to see him. Just to satisfy herself he was all right.

St. John and Cait left about eight o'clock to open the airfield and cancel the bulk of the flying lessons for that day. Cait offered to fly in for her later, but Jackie refused, assuring the other woman she'd find her own way home, and not to worry. She knew that her reaction was the same as it had been about three years ago, after Red Star. Seeing this much medical equipment surrounding him made her downright uncomfortable, reminding her of how fragile a life could be. Yes, how could she ever forget about life's fragility? She sighed heavily, resigned to the fact she would think of that bloodsoaked evening in the Libyan desert every day for the rest of her life. The day she'd become a true killer.

Though the doctor had given them all assurances that Michael's recovery would be very routine, the thought of him possibly dying froze her heart. She could not imagine ever being without him. She was terrified he might never wake up again, even though she'd heard the nursing staff talking about moving him into the medical ward a little later on that day, since he seemed to show so much remarkable improvement overnight.

Once, Michael had called her the source of his strength, right after Gabrielle died, when she was staying with him at the ranch. She looked now on the man who had been her source of strength for years, now vulnerable and almost helpless. For a moment, she damned The Firm. Then, she realized with crystal clear clarity that without The Firm, Michael would rot. As much as it beat him up and put him through the wringer, The Firm was his home, his life . . . something that would always be part of him. This was something she had to accept if they had any chance together. She sat near him, reaching through the rail to take his hand.

"You really did it this time, Michael," she half-whispered, voice breaking. "Should I flatter myself that this was just to get my attention?" She rested her forehead on the cold metal bars, closing her eyes in anguish.

"Worked . . . didn't . . . it . . .?"

Jackie's head shot up and she stared into Michael's face, realizing that he was awake and his hand had tightened around hers markedly. She was on her feet at once, taking down the siderail and leaning over, one hand on his face, thumb brushing his dry, cracked lips. With much effort, Michael turned his face into her palm and pressed a kiss to it, then his gaze met hers once more.

" . . . love . . . you . . ."

"More," she whispered, a tear sliding down her cheek and onto his.

His head drooped to one side, eyes dropping shut and body relaxing into sleep once more. Scooting up on the edge of the chair, Jackie took his relaxed hand in both of hers, laying her head down on the same pillow as his, despite her efforts to remain awake.

It was the way String and Dom found them about an hour later and it was the way they left the two when they returned to the waiting room.

******************************

Later that afternoon, Michael's condition improved enough that Dr. Werner authorized his transport to a private, guarded room on the medical floor and listed him as 'satisfactory.' Samantha had returned to the Knightsbridge office and Dom and String stayed on vigil until about noon, at which time Dominic insisted that Marella and Jackie needed a square meal. So the four of them ate lunch down in the hospital cafeteria.

"Flowers," Jackie said, mid-bite. "Marella, we should have some flowers sent up."

"After we finish eating, we'll go pick some up and the local florist," Marella told her. "White roses?"

"And gardenias. Michael loves gardenias."

"Remind me," Marella said. "By the way, Jackie, where are you staying?"

"I was staying at the ranch with Michael. My beach house won't be vacated for another month -- seems the people I bought it from had trouble with the new house they bought. So I cut them a break and let them stay 'til they got it hashed out."

"So why don't you come up to the cabin?" String invited. "We can borrow one of the choppers and you can keep me company. I can fly you in -- every day, if you want -- to see Michael."

Jackie looked up and smiled tiredly. "Thanks, String. The cabin sounds great. But you've got a brother to get reacquainted with and I don't want to intrude."

"St. John and I have already been on a long fishing trip," String reminded her. "And I think he'd like to spend some time with Cait, anyway. She mentioned something about taking him down to Texas with her next week -- family reunion, I think."

Jackie's smile deepened. "My goodness. Didn't take them very long, did it?"

Dom chortled. "Well, they had a little encouragement."

"Yeah, from Dominic 'Cupid' Santini," String jabbed at him, eyes twinkling. "You've been trying to get that girl into the family since she showed up here . . . what? Seven or eight months ago?"

"Yeah, at least your brother's got the eyes to see and the brains to realize Cait's a helluva catch," Dom sniped back.

"Hey, okay, time out!" Marella said with a chuckle.

"So," String continued, "you're coming up to the cabin. No buts about it, end of discussion. I don't think it's a good idea for you to be banging around in that big old ranch house by yourself."

"Let's go get those flowers," Marella suggested. "We could both do with the fresh air -- and a chance to catch up."

While the women went about choosing flowers, Dom and String visited the now-alert and lucid Deputy Director, who was ensconced in his private room and still closely monitored by both Dr. Werner and the hospital staff. As they suspected, he was hating every minute of his forced captivity.

"It feels like I went head-to-head with a Mack truck," Michael complained, as they waited for Jackie and Marella to return on that late afternoon.

"You've looked worse," Hawke replied, lip curling into a teasing smile. "But I suppose a guy your age can't be too careful."

Archangel scowled. "I'll take you on any day of the week, Hawke," he challenged, then paused thoughtfully. "So, Jackie and my prodigal operative couldn't wait to get to my bedside, and then immediately go on a shopping spree, huh?"

"Give 'em a break, Michael! I wouldn't mind having two gorgeous women following me halfway across the country!" Dom informed him with a belly-laugh.

Hawke smiled and Michael chuckled. "What can I say?" the Deputy Director replied, the humorous glint back in his eye. "I attract them in droves. It's the Coldsmith-Briggs charm."

Hawke made an exaggerated gagging sound as the other two laughed.

The door snapped open and Marella and Jackie came in, carrying big sprays of gardenias and white roses, interspersed with yellow daffodils and deep red tea roses. Michael watched in amusement as the two women placed the vases on the windowsill and available table space. Before he could thank them for the thought, Jackie turned and slid next to him on the bed, arms going around his neck and mouth coming down to encompass his warmly. He pulled back a little, then accepted the caress with fervor.

"You are definitely a sight for sore eyes," he intimated softly, eye crinkling with his smile. "I'm sorry about my present condition . . ."

"Don't you dare apologize," she interrupted, tracing his lower lip with her index finger. "We're just relieved you're all right." He cleared his throat a little and attempted to sit up a little straighter, wincing at the pain in his abdomen.

His eyes met those of Marella. "Marella. I'm surprised you're here."

His former operative looked slightly uncomfortable. "I . . . heard about your accident through the grapevine. I was on my way out of New Mexico when I heard and decided to detour."

Michael's expression softened. "I'm glad you're here. I've missed you." His eye glinted. "You really ran my department like a smooth machine. Samantha is almost as good as you. But not quite. Don't tell her I said that," he added hastily. "She's got big shoes to fill."

"If you've got a position open in The Firm that can utilize my skills, I'd like to have it, Michael," Marella told him.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "No kidding."

"I transmitted my resignation to the White House early this morning."

A small smile played about the Deputy Director's mouth. "Done, Marella. I'll make a phone call this afternoon and get your reinstatement papers drawn up. You can stay at the penthouse until you get your own place, I'll be staying at the ranch as soon as I'm out of here."

"Jacks is coming up to the cabin with me for a few days," Hawke informed him. "Her beach house won't be ready for a month yet. I can bring her in to see you whenever she wants."

Michael managed a broad smile. "You're in good hands, then. The doctor recommended bedrest for me for the next couple of weeks. I'm negotiating him down to ten days."

"Which means you'll stay seven," Marella said knowledgeably.

"Wrong. You'll do precisely what the doctor tells you," Jackie reprimanded a tad sharply. "I don't care how long it takes. I want you well."

"I second that," String agreed, smiling goodnaturedly.

"And now that we know you're still as cussed as ever, we better be getting back to the airfield," Dom announced, getting up from his chair. "Cait and St. John have been holding the fort and we should relieve them."

"We'll all leave so you can get your rest," Hawke emphasized pointedly at Michael. "And I do mean rest. Jacks, I can pick you up a little later if you want to stay awhile," the pilot offered.

"That's not necessary. She can go with you," Michael said, giving her hand a squeeze. "You can't do anything more here and the doctor's guaranteed my full recovery."

"But I want to be here," Jackie insisted.

"You can visit me tomorrow or the next day," Michael told her firmly. "You look half-dead from lack of sleep and I want you to rest up, too. No argument," he warned, as she was about to protest again. "I'm getting tired anyway, and intend to do some recuperative resting myself. So go."

With a sigh, she gave in. "OK. But if I hear you're conducting Firm business from bed, I'm coming back to beat you to a bloody pulp," she threatened.

"I'll make sure he doesn't," Marella placated the younger woman, eyes glinting in anticipatory enjoyment.

"If you need anything," Hawke reminded him, "you know where to call."

He smiled again, taking Jackie's hand in his. "Give me a few minutes alone with this lovely lady and I'll send her out to you shortly."

Hawke winked as he, Dom and Marella exited from the room.

Michael turned to her and brought her hand to his mouth, placing a fervent kiss on it. "God, I've missed you." He pulled her into a hug, grimacing slightly at the pain, but ignoring it. He felt her face buried in the rough white material of his hospital gown and breathed in her scent, holding her close, wanting it to penetrate his skin as if he could carry some of it with him when she left. He stroked her hair comfortingly.

Then, he leaned back, fingers going to her cheek, gaze locking to hers unwaveringly. The fire coursed through him when her face turned into his palm, placing a tender kiss on it; then she held his hand in both of hers, her lips moving over his knuckles and fingers. He watched in breathless fascination, a thrill washing through him every time he felt her tongue on his skin. Finally, he pulled his hand away, eyes never leaving hers; Jackie stiffened, averting her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, voice thick. "I didn't mean . . ."

"Did you hear me protesting?" Michael gently interrupted her. Surprised, her gaze jumped back to his. Michael's arm snaked out to catch her about the waist and he pulled her into his body again. "Got a kiss for your old man?"

Her mouth was soft and sweet under his and Michael could feel the way his hunger fed hers. His arm moved from her waist and up her back, so he could lose his hand in the dark hair at the nape of her neck, inwardly cursing the inconvenient IV stuck in his other arm. His tongue touched the roof of her mouth and she jumped against him at the unexpected pleasure. Tentatively, she answered back for a few moments, then he pulled gently away once more.

"Now -- tell me what I want to hear," he whispered. "And then I think we should say our temporary goodbyes."

Her hands went to either side of his face and she feathered his hair back tenderly with her fingers. "I love you, Michael."

The break in her voice went straight to his heart. Again, he pulled her close with one arm into a tight hug, breathing in her perfume. "You better go. Now. Before I rip this thing out of my arm and throw you down on the bed."

He heard her sharp intake of breath at his words and smiled a little at her surprise. When she leaned away from him, her eyes were shimmering.

He was loathe to see her leave. She paused at the door, mouthed 'I love you', and then exited, leaving Michael to lean back in utter relief and exhaustion. This was a good start, he thought. Just once in his life, he wanted some happiness for himself.

******************************

Later that week, Michael stared at the blood-spattered readouts on his lap and frowned, chewing on a thumbnail. He didn't like the looks of this at all. What he held was a printout of the background of everyone ever connected with the testing, production, maintenance and engineering of Airwolf. He knew it had been no easy task for Samantha to conceal this evidence from The Committee and inwardly congratulated his operative for managing it; the less The Committee knew about what the break-in entailed, the better. He didn't need Zeus poking his nose into his business.

The man he'd killed had been an Alpha level operative, a whiz-bang computer operator/programmer. His cover had been very carefully constructed. Damn near perfect, Sam had said. But now it was obvious that Gerald Bose was not Gerald Bose at all. The research team Michael had put to work on investigating the mole was currently going through Interpol, NCIC and a multitude of other law enforcement agencies and their databases to narrow the field down. It was obvious 'Gerald' was an errand boy for someone else, someone who had much to lose if his identity were discovered. A payoff was undoubtedly involved -- big enough to convince the young man who now lay dead in the morgue that it was worth risking his life if he got away with it.

Michael knew that Zeus was having a caniption as usual, and as usual, wanted to oversee Michael's division as he was less than one hundred percent. But with his faith in Sam and the retrieval of his former operative, Marella, Michael warned Zeus to back off and to let his people run things. Sam had tripled security at all Firm offices around the country in case another such breach threatened, instigated the most thorough investigation into all new personnel recently hired, and demanded reports from each branch every twelve hours and got them. She had the makings of a top Firm rep, and when promotions were handed out, Michael was going to make damn sure she had the opportunity to advance, especially if there was a director's job to be filled at one of the branch offices.

Marella bustled in, carrying a couple of current Time and Newsweek magazines with her. Michael caught her accusing gaze and shoved the printouts away from him a bit guiltily at her entrance, rewarded with her disapproving frown.

"I promised I'd keep you in line," she reprimanded sharply. "And here you sit, working as usual." She noticed the blood-stained papers and her lips pressed together. "Is that . . . the infamous printout?"

He nodded. "Take a look," he said, handing it to her.

She scanned it quickly and her mouth set in a harder line. "A lot of names are on here, Michael."

"Too many," he agreed. "If you delete Moffett, Jenkins, Preston, Daniel and Sara Kendricks, the two pilots we left to rot in Libya and the body count at Red Star,you still have an impressive number of people who worked closely on the Airwolf project. The Committee doesn't even know about half these people."

"If they were brought together in one place . . ." Marella started, lifting her eyes to his gaze.

" . . . and forced, for whatever reason . . ." Michael chewed on his nail some more. "Another Airwolf could conceivably be reconstructed. I don't want a repeat of a few months ago." He shook his head. "I put a stop order on the project after the prototype was stolen by Moffett. No more production or restructuring of our materials. Except for that bloody Redwolf Zeus had the nerve to put together behind my back with Harlan Jenkins."

"It was generally assumed that a large percentage of brilliant minds who worked on the original Airwolf was blown up with Red Star," Marella said.

"That," Michael said evenly, "was what I wanted everyone to think. It's kept a lot of innocent people out of some very nasty hands." He heaved a breath. "I want you to work closely with Sam on this. If anything breaks . . ."

"I'll let you know immediately, but you get that rest you need," Marella chastised him gravely. She contemplated the printout once more. "Shall I authorize surveillance teams on anyone in particular on this list, Michael?"

Michael shook his head. "Whoever Gerald Bose was working for didn't get away with the printout. If we sent out surveillance teams, whoever is up to this monkey business might be watching and see it as a red flag. Just keep security beefed up at all the offices for now." He closed his eyes tiredly and sighed.

"What about Jackie, Sir?" Marella questioned in a low voice. "No surveillance at all? And Hawke?"

"You know Hawke doesn't need surveillance." He put the printout aside. "Hawke can take care of himself and the least of my problems is Jackie. She's in good hands. There's no one in the world I'd trust her to be with more than Stringfellow Hawke."

******************************

Johann Gerlac had never given up his dream of his own little tropical country, where those of his ilk could flock for refuge, where similarly-motivated minds could plot the takeover of shaky, governmental structures of likewise small island countries. Money spoke volumes -- it bought off officials, financed revolutions, obtained much-needed information and maintained anonymity.

The only thing it had not yet managed to procure for him was the crowning jewel to his collection of truly remarkable aircrafts. It had not gotten him Airwolf.

Gerlac's mole in The Firm had been a disaster. His agent had made a mistake, a costly miscalculation that ended in his death and the unattainment of his goal -- the information he was to have gotten through skilled computer hacking so commencement of construction of the miracle machine could be implemented. The list of people connected with the project would have been easily gathered together and made to work for him. Everyone had a weakness that could be used as leverage, and those who refused could usually be swayed by other means. Stealing the prototype would have been infinitely easier, but zero knowledge of its hiding place and the likely possibility it could be wired to the point where only the pilot would know how to diffuse it posed too many problems. This was what had facilitated Gerlac's attempt to find those connected to the project, including any pilots he could get his hands on. For the present, it had all gone up in smoke.

But there were alternatives. Johann Gerlac always had alternatives.

He took a deep drink of wine, staring moodily out the window offering a few of the tropical forest surrounding his mansion. This small island off the coast of Costa Rica had proven to be a good hiding place.

Three days had elapsed since news that his mole had been killed reached him. There was too much risk sending another in. Alternative Two must be implemented, after a necessary time lapse. Moving too fast would be suspect. Of course, retrieving or destroying the mole's body was the first priority; that, and seeing to it that all records of the man were destroyed so a link back to him could not be found.

Gerlac dreamed of a Fourth Reich, of which he would be founder with his array of mercenaries and hip-pocket politicians so generously funded by him in the past. In all reality, it would not happen in his lifetime. But it was possible to lay the groundwork and to have another carry the project on after him. Germany had risen from a small European country and had rocked the world. But Hitler had made too many mistakes, relying on the rantings of psychics and fortunetellers. Gerlac smiled. Takeovers did not necessarily come in the form of massive armies, though such support had its obvious advantages. There were other, more subtle ways. Like infiltration of political structures.

He took another sip of wine and turned up the volume of his stereo system, the sounds of Ludvig Von Beethoven filling the room. Smiling, he remembered the Glory Days of the Third Reich.

******************************

Jackie perused the picture albums with avid interest. It had been a blessedly quiet couple of days, thanks to Hawke, and she could feel her body recharging and was beginning to relax and enjoy the solitude. She woke up close to noon the first day. After a call to Michael and a twenty-minute chat, she felt better about not being closeby. He sounded good and rested and she knew that Marella was keeping her promise to make sure he followed doctors' orders. Today, String had flown her in to see him. She and Michael took a walk around the private grounds of the hospital, stopping in the cafeteria for a cup of coffee afterwards and lingering another forty minutes or so. Marella had informed her on the way out that the Deputy Director was healing rapidly, largely because he couldn't wait to get out of the hospital and resume his relationship with her. That had made her blush. She hadn't realized Michael had actually confided these things to Marella.

Before she'd left Galen's Keep that day, Michael pressed a bulging envelope in her hand. She looked at him questioningly.

"It's something you need to read when you can be alone with yourself for awhile," Michael told her seriously. "It's a lot to digest. It's very important that you read it."

"What is this, a confessional?" she asked him.

"It's more than that. You'll understand when you read it."

So, she'd taken it, stuffing it into her slightly oversized purse. So far, she hadn't touched it.

The door to the cabin opened and Hawke came in with Tet trailing him. She looked up thoughtfully from the photographs and smiled.

"It's nice out there," he told her, shutting the door. "You should go take a walk this afternoon. The fresh air will do you good."

She leaned back in the chair, then replaced the album in the low bookcase beside her. "I think I'll take your advice, String." She ran a hand through her hair, then rose to her feet. "Thanks for taking me in to see Michael today."

"He looked ready to take on the world when you left," Hawke apprised her. "You're good medicine for him, Jacks. We'll go in tomorrow if you're up to it."

"I am." She paused for a moment. "We had some good times up here, String."

"Very good times," he agreed. "And they don't have to end, although it might be a little more crowded up here with St John here and Cait coming up more than she used to." He grinned. "St. John's definitely been smitten."

Jackie rested her chin in her hand. "That's wonderful. For both of them. I hope it all works out." She walked over to the coat rack by the door and dug around inside her purse, pulling out the envelope and stuffing it into her inside jacket pocket. "Don't know when I'll be back. I'm thawing out chicken for tonight."

"None for me. Fish only. You know that."

"Purist." Jackie wrinkled her nose. "OK, get some out to thaw. I'll see what I can do with it that's new."

"I know how to cook," String reminded her with a grin. "Who knows. I might even leave you some."

"There's always steak if you eat it all."

"Yuck." String made a face. "Did you get more garlic at the store?"

"Juice, powder, salt and cloves," Jackie confirmed. "See ya in awhile."

She went out the door and walked for ten minutes before coming to a cleared spot on the other side of the lake. There, she settled herself on top of a boulder and stared straight ahead for long moments. She finally drew Michael's letter out of her pocket, slitting the top open with her nail and extracting the mound of pages. She counted them without reading ahead. There were some thirty-odd, all written in Michael's neat, precise handwriting.

"My God," she murmured to herself. "It's a book."

Heaving a breath, Jackie began to read.

******************************

Hawke pushed back the curtain at the window and looked out. The last bit of sunlight was fading fsat, and he was a little bit worried about Jackie being so late. Being out on a mountainside at night could get you mighty lost unless you knew the area like the back of your hand, and as many times as she had been up there, Jackie didn't know the area that well. He relaxed when he saw her coming out of the trees toward the cabin.

She opened the cabin door quietly and shut it, heading straight over to the fireplace to slide down into one of the comfortable chairs. Her eyes remained fixedly on the flames that crackled over the firelogs. Hawke went to the counter and reached for a couple of wineglasses, pouring a rose into them. She accepted the offering wordlessly, still contemplating the fireplace as he settled on the couch across from her. He considered his houseguest for a long moment.

"Something happened between the time you went out and the time you came back," Hawke stated in a level voice.

"Yeah."

"Wanna talk?"

Her eyes flew up to his, then lowered again. "I . . . no."

Hawke took a sip of wine, then fixed her with another gaze. "Do you need to talk?"

She took a long drink of wine, hardly savoring it, then leaned forward, eyes unfocused. "I don't even know what I'd tell you, String."

The uncertainty in her voice told Hawke exactly what she was feeling most. The lady was afraid.

"The words'll come."

Again, she seemed on the verge of saying something, then pulled back and shut him out. Hawke was not about to let her retreat back into old habits like that.

"You know whatever you say I won't hold against you," he told her quietly.

"I can't, String. I don't know how. I'm . . . not sure it's something I can share with you." She blinked her eyes. "Let's just say Michael laid a lot of stuff on me I had no idea about. Feelings. Thoughts. Events. Stuff that most men would keep to themselves." She rubbed her eyes and looked over at him. "Frankly, it bowls me over. I don't think he's kept many secrets to himself. He's told me pretty much everything."

"He told you about Maria?" String asked quietly.

She nodded. "Yes."

"Sonja?"

"Yes."

"The Fortuneteller?"

Her knuckles pressed against her mouth. "Yes." She paused. "Apparently," she murmured softly, "he told you, too. Of course, Maria and the Fortuneteller thing you were involved with."

"Yeah. Both incidents messed him up more than he'd ever admit."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "String, I could never begrudge him anything he feels. About his women, about you, about me, about his politics, the reasons he does the things he does . . . he's opinionated as hell, he thinks he's right most of the time and usually is, and sometimes he pisses me off so much I can't see straight. But I love him. God, I love him so much."

"And the problem is . . .?"

"I . . . I don't know that there's a problem. I'm just . . . overwhelmed."

"You guys hashed all this stuff through this afternoon?"

"No." She hesitated. "He wrote me a thirty-page letter to read."

Hawke's eyebrows went up.

When Jackie lifted her chin, her eyes were wet with tears. "Do I deserve someone like Michael?"

"Maybe," he offered, "it's not a matter of whether or not you deserve him. Maybe it's just a matter of how much the two of you love each other. Once you try justifying those emotions, you run into a lot of trouble, like you did those months ago. Just accept the fact those feelings are there and they're real and you have just as much right to them as anyone else."

"When I walked away last year," she told him, "all I could do was wallow in my self-pity. I thought Michael hated me, couldn't stand to be around me because I murdered Preston -- because of the way I killed him. When he didn't show up that night when you called him, my pride was wounded. But I never really gave his feelings much thought. I blamed a lot of things on him and couldn't see where the problems lie with me."

"But you've seen them now," Hawke told her. "You had a lot of illusions, Jacks. And Michael was at fault for some of them. They were all right to have when you were younger, but dangerous to have as an adult. They should have been diffused a long time ago. That was Michael's mistake. He never tried to take your illusions from you. If anything, he built them up."

"He was protecting me the only way he knew how." She let out a sigh. "And I let him when I knew better." She let out a forced, sardonic laugh. "So -- we're really just human beings screwing up and messing up, and then screwing and messing up with each other."

"Yeah. Welcome to the real world. Sucks, doesn't it?"

She smiled tiredly. "Sometimes."

"Now, let the master give you a massive boost of self-confidence." Hawke pulled her over on the sofa beside him. "From what I've seen and from what Michael's told me, he loves you more than anything, and that includes the precious Firm. Y'know, The Firm can only be so much to him. I'm not saying he can live without it, because I'm pretty sure he can't. But it doesn't take care of the emotional side in a lot of the ways you do. It's not someone he can talk to or dream with or laugh with . . . and it sure as hell can't keep the bed warm at night. Make him see he's dealing with a woman who loves him unconditionally and never take his feelings for granted again." String stopped and took another sip of wine. "That's my two cents' worth. I won't mention it again unless you want me to." He got to his feet. "Hungry?"

"Yeah. Steak." Her brow furrowed, as if she was in thought.

"And you want it how, as if I didn't know?"

"Like always," she replied. "Bloody rare."

******************************

"Michael!" Marella cried, catching the Deputy Director buckling up his belt and shrugging into his pristine white jacket. "The doctor said you weren't to check out at least until tomorrow!"

Michael looked up at her with mild irritation. "Damn and blast what the doctor said, I've been bedridden for almost ten days and I'm not going to take it lying down anymore. I have priorities that simply have been put off long enough. I don't need anyone's permission to check out."

"Another day, Michael. You aren't Hercules." Marella was adamant. "One more day. I mean it. A good dinner and a good night's sleep. Then we'll negotiate tomorrow." She started to herd him toward his bed.

Michael scowled at her good intentions. "I've been shot up worse than this. I know when I'm all right. Call the car around, I need to get to Knightsbridge and find out what's been going on."

"That does it!" Marella snapped stormily. "Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, if you don't cease and desist this instant, I will personally strap you to that bed myself!" she thundered, eyes sparking. "Back into bed! Now!"

Stunned, Michael stared at her. "Marella . . .!"

"No discussion. I'll call the orderlies if I have to," she insisted darkly. "Besides . . . I have some news for you."

Michael sat on the edge of the bed and turned toward her. "I don't like your tone. What happened?"

"The intruder you shot . . . we were in the process of having him transferred from the morgue here to the Firm's downtown facility. Midway between, the brakes gave out on the coroner's car and plunged down into a canyon and it went up like a fireball. Sam dispatched a forensics team, and we found the car had been wired with explosives, probably detonated by remote control. She's running it through to determine whether it's terrorist-related. But everything's gone, Michael. The M.E. was killed in the explosion and all the tapes and autopsy notes were either destroyed or confiscated. There's virtually nothing left of the bodies. We're also still running an investigation on possible internal leaks."

Michael balled up his fist and hit the mattress. "Damn it! Somebody's going to a lot of trouble to keep their identity a secret from us."

Marella nodded. "At the moment, we have nothing but a big fat zero. We virtually have nothing to work with. Nothing."

Michael's mouth was set in a grim line. "Then all we can do is keep our eyes and ears open. I want our people to work with the local police, also. You go ahead and head that up."

"Fine, Sir. If you promise me you'll rest."

Michael let out a martyred sigh, but knew he was no match for Marella when her determination was in high gear. "All right. I'll rest," he acquiesced. "But tomorrow, first thing, I want out of here. After I go over reports, I want to see that gorgeous lady of mine." He yawned. "Guess I am tired."

"In bed with you, Sir."

"You're going to tuck me in?" he teased goodnaturedly.

She began to loosen his tie and help him off with his jacket. "I brought you some clean pajamas from the ranch. When I get to your waist, you're on your own, unless you want me to ring for a nurse."

"Coward," Michael accused, his good eye dancing with humor.

He smiled to himself as she helped him. Though he would never admit it, he liked being fussed over, especially by his female operatives.

******************************

The mountain breeze blew through the open windows and Hawke breathed in the cool pine scent as he lay up in the loft. It had been a nice ten days, he thought to himself. Good for him and good for his companion. Cait had called earlier, informing both him and Dom that she and St. John had decided to drive into Padre Island and San Antonio after the reunion. They were due back in tomorrow afternoon sometime, and he was glad they'd be back, missing them almost from the day they left. The days had been quiet, even business at Santini Air wasn't heavy, and Hawke only went in three times the week before to help out.

He enjoyed the comfortableness of his friendship with Jackie. Even when she'd first taken to coming up to the cabin in the very beginning, they had never gotten in each other's way. Reminiscing about old times and the talks these past days had done them both a world of good. It began to feel like the old times again. Even when they didn't interact with each other, the atmosphere lost none of its warmth. He would catch glimpses of Jackie, watching as she would sit out on the dock or walk around the lake or hike down the valley to sit in the middle of the wildflowers. Sometimes he went with her. Oftentimes, he left her to her own devices. He knew that the long periods of solitude was her way of healing.

But when he was alone, like this, String had a tendency to become melancholy. Tonight had been especially rough. He had a late talk with Jackie and unbidden memories were brought to the fore. When they started to filter back, he realized this very day was the anniversary of Gabrielle's death. At that point, he'd suddenly closed down, the grief still as fresh as it had been almost three years ago.

When Jackie went to bed, he'd poured himself a stiff drink, then a second. He had a third before finally turning in. Glancing at her by the fireplace earlier, Hawke could have sworn she'd taken on Gabrielle's persona, but when she lifted her face, his love's presence vanished. Now, all the memories became harsh realities and he could, on this night, feel her hands on his body, her mouth under his; he called up her scent and lost himself in it, curling up tightly in a ball, wishing desperately she was there. One night. That's all he wanted.

One night to be in Gabrielle's arms again and he would never ask God for another thing in his life.

He sat up suddenly, eyes adjusting to the dimness. Immediately, he heard someone moving around downstairs and he climbed out of bed noiselessly, grabbing a short terry robe to cover his nude body. At the top of the stairs, he looked down. The fire crackled over the embers, casting subtle firelight over the still figure curled on the floor before it. Traces of deep burgundy glistened in her dark hair and elongated shadows danced like wispy spirits on the walls, bringing the faces in the paintings to life. Hawke descended the stairs quietly, swaying just a little. From this angle, she looked a lot like . . .

Gabrielle.

A board creaked softly when his bare foot touched the floor at the bottom. He knew she heard it, even though no acknowledgement was forthcoming. He had read it in the almost imperceptible stiffening of Jackie's shoulders. A gesture just as precise as if it was . . .

Gabrielle.

Tet was curled at her feet, head resting between his paws. The hound opened his eyes and wagged his tail for a moment at Stringfellow's appearance, then resumed his previous mode of rest, just as he had done with . . .

Gabrielle.

"Would a glass of wine help you sleep?" Hawke questioned in a low tone.

Jackie shifted a little, not turning. "I doubt it, String. I'm just restless, that's all."

"Worried about Michael, aren't you?"

She smiled softly. "Didn't think my worrying would be so loud as to wake you up."

Hawke smiled back. "'S'okay. I was just concerned . . . about you."

"Don't be," she admonished gently. "If you worry, you'll make me feel guilty. I've already got a bad case of the guilts."

"OK. So I'll stop worrying." He knelt beside her, peering into her face. "Need to talk?"

"Nah. Just need to chill."

"Yeah, you do. Relax. Day after tomorrow, I'll bet Michael will be out of that hospital and a week from now, he'll be playing polo again. You watch."

"Knowing Michael, you're probably right," she agreed. Jackie dropped her head, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know if my heart can stand this."

"Stand what? You've always shared him with The Firm. Remember what I told you."

"I know. I think I'm beginning to realize how Michael felt when I was running covert operations."

"It's hard, isn't it?" Hawke asked, sympathetically.

"Yeah." She covered her face with her hands. "It's hard."

"Hey. Hey." String pulled her hands down. "C'mon. It's OK."

A sob tore from her throat and she leaned into him, burying her face in his chest. Her shoulders shook. "Damn it," she cursed softly. "Damn it."

"What are you scared of?" Hawke suddenly asked her, instinct picking up despite the memories. "Something that was in that letter?"

There was a marked silence. "Michael has everything mapped out, you know," she finally told him.

String frowned. "Has what mapped out?"

"Everything." Her eyes squeezed tightly shut. "It might as well be a timetable. It's so . . . clinical."

String held her tenderly, pillowing his cheek on top of her head and felt her readily surrender herself to the comfort of his arms. He swallowed, feeling himself take solace in hers. Memories like sienna-colored photographs clicked across his slightly alcohol-fed brain. All of them memories of . . .

Gabrielle.

Dark hair. Small build. Vulnerability and beauty.

Gabrielle.

A deep breath escaped him and he closed his eyes, body trembling. String breathed in the scent -- her scent.

Gabrielle's scent.

Tears dropped from his eyes, wetting his cheeks, trickling a path onto the neck of the woman he held in his arms. He felt her stiffen, then relax, hands moving soothingly over his back.

"What is it, String?" came her gentle question. Words transformed into . . .

Gabrielle's voice.

He shuddered, a sob stifled at the base of his throat as in his mind's eye he saw . . .

Gabrielle in the boat, the breeze riffling back her dark hair that framed her smiling face . . .

"Ah, God." The sob escaped his throat, through his mouth as his face slipped down to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. One hand slid up to weave into the brunette hair at the nape of her neck and he made a small noise deep in his throat.

Soft skin. Silken touch.

Gabrielle.

His lips touched her flesh briefly and another series of tremors swept through him. Then, his mouth fastened on her throat and he heard her draw her breath in sharply.

"String?" Her tone held confusion and maybe a touch of fear.

His hold tightened comfortingly. "It's OK," he assured her, whispering in her ear. "I'm here, baby. I won't let you go again." He held her gently, yet securely, resuming his kisses from neck to ear.

"No." The word reached his ears, half-choked. "String . . . stop. Don't do this."

His mouth continued to move across her cheek until it pressed on hers. He had to make Gabrielle believe that he wouldn't hurt her. Not for the world. The hunger consumed him. He barely noticed when she tore her mouth from his, straining against him.

"NO!" She hit his chest with two clenched fists, tears streaming down her face . . .

Gabrielle's face.

"Damn it!" she cried out again. "Damn it, String! I'M NOT GABRIELLE!"

He lifted his head, staring into the beautiful features before him. Another face superimposed itself upon Gabrielle's, a face so familiar, a comforting face, momentarily hardened with . . . what? Fury? Confusion? Desperation? Why should any of those things be present in . . .

Gabrielle's face.

His fingers dug into her shoulders and he shook silently, control nearly gone. His face was drenched in tears, his entire being shook with emotion.

"Don't leave, Gabrielle," he whispered, breathing through his tears. "Please . . . don't leave me again . . ."

"I'm sorry." His love's voice sounded shocked, small, a bare whisper. "Oh, String. I'm sorry. So sorry . . ."

She pulled him back into a hug and he convulsed suddenly in sobs, rending the quiet atmosphere of the mountain retreat. Her soft crying mingled with his and then a sudden cry of agony erupted from her, muffled in his shoulder.

"I'm here, Gabrielle. I'm here."

She jerked him away abruptly, crawling on her hands and knees to regain her feet. When she reached the sofa, Stringfellow caught the material of her silk robe and it tore in his fingers. He made another grab, bringing her back to the floor.

Her hands grabbed his wrists, and she looked desperately into his face. Blue eyes . . . blue? For a moment, Hawke frowned. Gabrielle's eyes . . .

Gabrielle's brown eyes . . .

His jaw flexed. No. Blue or brown, this was Gabrielle. This was his lover. She'd come back. She was here, with him, tonight. Libya had never happened. She was safe in his cabin by the fire, her small hands in his own, now.

"I love you." Words that she had managed to pull from him, that she still managed to pull from him now. Words he so rarely used.

"String!! For God's sake, String!!"

He sat back a moment, staring into the face before him. Again, another face, curiously familiar, bled through to his vision.

"How can I convince you, Gabrielle?" he whispered, almost mournfully. "How can I convince you I will never hurt you? How?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks and her hands went over her mouth. Gently, he brought them down.

Somehow, he found her lips again. Somehow, his hands swept over the soft curves of her body and there was no reality anymore but the burning fire within. He was never sure exactly when or how he'd carried her up the stairs to the loft, to his bed. His touch was everywhere and he felt her surge upward, turning so he was beneath, exchanging kiss for kiss, caress for caress, until he had rolled with her again so she was beneath him in surrender. There was no concept of time, only a blurred line between fantasy and reality. He knew that Gabrielle could not be with him, and yet she was. He knew she was dead, and yet here she was, alive, meeting his thrusts with wild abandon, her cries of rapture entwining with his. A bright white light suffused his mind and body and she convulsed, her thin cry sounding in his ears with her sobbing release. Her jerked at her touch, mouth sinking to the swollen, moist lips below his. His hands slid over the slender waist, up her ribcage, cupping her breasts, his mouth sliding from hers to follow the anxious trails of his fingers. Her legs wrapped around him and he devoured her with unrelenting and rhythmic thrusting. The surge built inside her again, and he took his mouth from her skin.

"Oh, GOD!" he cried, voice breaking. "I love you, Gabrielle!"

Her cry was a mixture of pain and pleasure, soaring out of her through the sound of her sobs, wreathing him like a discarnate spirit. His orgasm ripped through him with frightening speed, culminating in a single, explosive conclusion that took him over the brink to sink into a deep and blessed sleep.

******************************

Hawke's eyes opened slowly and the first thing he was aware of was the warmth about him, the soft, quiet breath diffusing moistly over his chest. For a split-second, the dark head pillowed there led Hawke to believe it was his lost love who slept. But out of his clouded brain realization surfaced and with it a stab of sick fear and muted horror surged through his gut. He raised himself up on his elbow and brushed the near-ebony tresses aside, revealing Jackie Kendricks' face in restful repose.

"Oh. My. God." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "Oh, my God."

Jackie shifted slightly, rolling over on her back to stretch, arms over her head. She sighed once, then opened her eyes, a shaft of sunlight falling across her. She opened her eyes, gaze meeting his.

Sudden revelation barreled quickly over her face and she shot upright in bed, sheet falling to her waist. Horrified, she grabbed at it, pulling it up to cover herself.

"Jesus!" she hissed, running a hand through her tousled locks. "What the hell . . .?"

"I'm sorry." Hawke was quietly shocked. He tried to place a hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away. Hawke sighed, looking toward heaven as if for guidance, then closing his eyes. "I don't believe I did this to you . . . to me. To . . ."

The unspoken name hung heavily in the air, like a threatening canopy of storm clouds. For the next few moments, they simply stared at each other in speechlessness.

Jackie held her head in her hands in absolute disbelief. Then, she looked up at him, jaw working. "String -- this was not the thing to do. It was a mistake. A big mistake."

He sighed heavily, absolutely miserable. "I know." His eyes aligned with hers. "Can . . . you handle what happened?"

She covered her mouth with one hand, shaking her head. "I don't know." She got up, wrapping the quilt around herself. "I don't know. I've got to get out of here. String, I have to leave."

"I'll . . . um . . . get dressed and take you in," he told her quietly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked toward her. "Jackie . . ."

"String!" Her voice was sharp with a 'back off' warning to it. He stopped his reach mid-gesture. "I'm not afraid of staying here with you. Last night was . . . not exactly something either one of us could control. But . . . this absolutely . . . CANNOT . . . EVER . . . HAPPEN . . . AGAIN. Ever."

"I realize that." Hawke actually averted his eyes. "I'm sorry I put us in this position. It was stupid."

"It was incredibly stupid." She stopped, shaking her head. "We were both screwed up. Shit," she swore softly, grimly, heading down the stairs. Hawke followed, having grabbed his robe. At the foot of the stairs, she abruptly whirled. "I've got to tell Michael."

"Are you nuts?!" String seized her arm, jerking her about to face him. "Look, Jackie. I care about Michael. Granted last night was a helluva way to show it. But if you tell him about this, you'll destroy everything the two of you have built so far."

"You don't get it," Jackie all but hissed. "I can't not tell him."

"Michael will never trust either one of us again."

"He won't trust us if he finds out way after the fact, either," Jackie said pointedly.

"How? How can he find out if neither one of us tells him?"

She moved to the bedroom. "I can't keep something like this from him. I couldn't live with myself. He's been honest with me my whole life. I've never lied to him. I can't start now. I can't."

"Stop and think. You have no idea what you're doing."

She whirled to glare at him. "The subject's closed!" she shouted angrily, and he knew that her anger wasn't restricted to him. The flare in her eyes died down to embers. "Please, String. Just . . . get dressed and take me to Santini Air. I'm going back to the ranch."

Hawke stared at her a few moments as she ditched the quilt and pulled on her jeans and sweater. Then, he silently turned around, defeated, retracing his path up the stairs.

******************************

Michael had not expected Jackie to be at the ranch when he arrived, but it was a pleasant surprise. Wonderful smells came from the kitchen and his appetite suddenly reappeared after ten days of being dulled by hospital fare. She always knew how to take care of him on the occasions he needed her to. Her kiss had been warm and subtly amorous when he came through the front door, and he let her fuss over him, enjoying the attention. She slipped his jacket off, settled him on the sofa and laid the spread out on the coffeetable -- tall glasses of iced tea with mint, a loaf of still-warm pumpernickel bread, sliced and steaming, raw vegetables set in a pretty pattern on a platter interspersed with provolone cheese, a creamy tomato soup and stuffed mushrooms in a chafing dish. Fresh strawberries were for dessert and though the fare was simple compared to what he was usually treated to, it was delicious.

"How did you know I'd be home this afternoon?" he queried, taking a generous bite of the soft bread and then a spoonful of the soup.

"Beeped Marella, since I figured she'd have your progress report more readily available than anyone else," she told him. "I was concerned about what you might or might not be able to eat," she explained, as they sat back, enjoying the food. "So I tried to make it simple and a little on the bland side. I figured a little dairy was OK -- the soup didn't have any cow milk in it, just rice milk and cornstarch for thickening."

"You're a marvel, my love." He smiled and put his bowl down, caressing her cheek. "I suppose you're going to make me knuckle under and really watch my diet for me, huh?"

"You know it," she confirmed resolutely. "But Dr. Werner said you had to be careful, not do without," she reminded him. "So that means cutting down on the creams, butters and alcohol."

"It means no fun," he almost pouted.

"No it doesn't. You'd be surprised what they're doing with restricted diets these days," Jackie argued. "Besides, if I cook here at home, that gives you more incentive to stay here with me."

"Like that's a big chore." He smiled. "And I know that look. You're going to give me absolutely no choice in this."

"Nope. You're lucky you didn't lose your liver," she said seriously.

"I'm very lucky I didn't lose my life."

After dinner, when the dishes were cleared away and they settled back, he pulled her into his side, loving the fact that being here shut out the external world. Everything she did for him was an expression of love. This was their haven, where he could be free with her. Where they could enjoy simple honesty between them.

He gave her no warning, no chance to think about it. He kissed her warmly, with an undercurrent of urgency. She tasted wonderful and he could feel her tremble. This piqued him a little, but he found himself smiling into the kiss. One hand stroked her back, the other slipped under her breast, thumb teasing her nipple into rigidness. She broke the kiss, neck arching back. His mouth settled on the hollow of her throat, tongue tracing a delicate line up to her chin. Finally, he claimed her mouth again, the warmth suffusing his body, settling into his groin.

Carefully, he unzipped his trousers, taking her hand gently that rested on his shoulder to pull it down over his chest and still-tender abdomen. He guided it inside the top of his boxers; she pulled her mouth from his when her hand contacted his achingly rigid flesh, breath catching in her throat. He wet his lips, then sighed and parted them, eyes closed, as her hand closed over him, caressing, stroking . . . her finger inadvertently smoothed over his glans in repetitive fashion and he moaned deeply into her neck. She started to pull her hand away, but he grabbed her wrist.

"Don't stop, Jackie. Please . . ."

"Should we be doing this?" she asked breathlessly. "Michael . . . your wound. What if I accidently hit you with my knee, or hold you too tight, or . . ."

"Then I'll let you know. The stitches are my concern. We obviously can't have sex yet, but there is so much we can do." He tugged on her lower lip with his teeth. "I can't stand not having your hands on me. I need you. Now."

"I . . . Michael, no." She struggled out of his grasp, breathing heavily as she sought sanctuary on the other side of the sofa. "I'm sorry," she apologized miserably, enduring the disappointment in his face. "I want you, too. So bad I can taste it. But I don't want you injured. I'd feel better if we waited awhile until you've had another couple of weeks to heal."

Michael moved closer to her, taking her chin in his hand and turning her downcast face up to his. He searched her expression and somehow knew without a doubt that it was more than concern about popping his stitches making her put off the intimacy.

"Something's bothering you." He wound a tendril of her hair around his fingers. "Tell me." He watched as she wet her lips, avoiding his eyes again. "Did you have a disagreement with Hawke or something? Is that why you came back here early?"

"No." Her reply slammed down like an iron door. "We didn't . . . fight. I just decided I wanted to come back here. Where I could be closer. To you."

"Then what? You're worried about who masterminded my shooting?"

"Of course I am. But I know your people will eventually find out who it is."

"What then?"

She sighed, holding her head in her hands and leaning forward on her knees by her elbows. "It's been a rough couple of weeks, Michael. For everyone."

"I know." He zipped up his pants, then held out his arms. "Come here." After a moment's hesitation, she curled into his side carefully. He stroked her hair for long moments. "Did you get a chance to wade through that letter I sent with you? Is that what you're upset about? If it is, let's talk about it."

She was quiet for a long moment. "There was nothing in that letter that really upset me, Michael . . . except for the fact that you were carrying everything inside you."

He waited a beat. "But -- ?"

"It was a lot to digest right after you'd been shot. I don't think I was emotionally prepared for everything that was in that loaded letter. In fact," she said softly, "I know I wasn't."

"I'm sorry. Maybe my timing was off in giving it to you."

"It wouldn't have mattered. There was a lot of heavy stuff in there that you needed to get off your chest and I needed to know about." She shifted, discomfort plainly written on her face.

"There's something else bothering you. Tell me."

"You're reading things into this that aren't there." Her tone was almost angry, and then Michael was sure there was more bothering her than she let on.

He pushed a little more. "What is it you're afraid to tell me, Jackie? I thought we were past this."

"Michael . . ." She stopped, then looked him squarely in the face. "Everybody has secrets, Michael. I have them. You have them."

"But whatever it is that you're keeping from me is having a direct impact on us," he pointed out. "There is nothing you could tell me that I'd hate you for. Do you hear me? Nothing." Her eyes fastened on his gaze for a long moment and he thought at one point she was going to spill it. But a wall came up between them the moment she averted her face.

It was as if she had made a final decision about something. Michael observed her thoughtful face. Finally, she looked up. "There's nothing I can tell you."

He leaned his head on his hand, elbow on the back of the sofa. "You're sure? Sweetheart, I may get angry as hell and say some harsh things sometimes. But I could never be without you again. Are you afraid I'll leave you if you tell me something I don't want to hear?"

"What is it you think I'm hiding?" she asked defensively.

"I don't know. If I knew, you wouldn't be hiding it."

She rose, going over to the bar to pour herself a brandy. She took a deep sip, her back still to him. Michael followed her over; he slipped his arms around her waist, pressing her gently into the bar.

"Tell me," he urged quietly in her ear. "Honesty, remember? We never play games when it comes to us."

"You're looking for problems where there doesn't have to be any."

He smoothed her hair aside, kissing the back of her neck, sensually nibbling the skin. "Am I?" he turned her around, leading her back to the sofa without her brandy. Once there, he pulled her close. "I guess I'll have to take your word for it. Now let me tell you something. I've been in the hospital for ten lousy days. I've just spent almost eight hours at the office to make sure a mess wasn't made of it and I've just had a wonderful supper fixed by a woman I adore. Right now, I have the need to satisfy some other cravings -- and I need you to be less concerned about my stitches and more concerned about some heavy necking. And maybe even some . . ." He whispered in her ear.

She slapped at his shoulder with a small smile on her lips. "Not until you've healed some more, buster. Necking I can handle. Anything below the waist comes under the category of possible injury to your surgical site, and that's not in your best interest at the moment."

"All right, we'll compromise." His hands pulled her sweater from her jeans. "Everything above the waist."

"Mi-chael!" Despite herself, Jackie was giggling. "You're worse than an octopus!" She began to loosen his tie. "If I have to, you have to."

Lie back," he told her, voice low. For a moment, he stopped touching her, waiting until she complied. Curious, she leaned back as she was told.

With smooth, even movements, Michael finished removing his tie, then unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders and letting it slide in a white pool on the floor. His hands moved to the pale blue knit sweater she wore, sliding it up over her body and over her head. It joined his shirt and his fingers negotiated the front clasps of her bra.

"Someone might think you've actually had a lot of practice doing this sort of thing," she teased him.

He smiled, watching the cups of the brassiere separate, revealing two beautiful breasts crowned with tannish-pink aureoles. He caressed her npples, feeling them harden between his fingers; he took her mouth in a deep, smoldering kiss and felt her surge against him instinctively. This was what he was craving. It didn't have to be sex. He craved the closeness of the woman who loved and desired him. It would be so easy to lose control. Right now. It was an intoxicating moment with an intoxicating woman and despite the pain in his side, he wanted her. He wanted her badly. His need must have transmitted itself to her on a crystal clear wavelength, because she was backing off a little. Frustrated, his hold became tighter, his kiss more demanding. He didn't want the maddeningly pleasant ache in his body to end.

"Don't pull away," he whispered. "It's all right, Jackie. I promise."

He lowered his mouth to the pink peak of one breast, circling his tongue around it lazily, running it over the raised nub. She shuddered against him, hands running through his hair. Michael closed his mouth over it, pulling the nipple farther into his mouth, tongue stroking the flesh as he gently suckled. He listened to her gasp and smiled as he applied more gently pressure. It was arousing to hear her soft cries and gasps; knowing that he could play her body like this was a powerful, exciting feeling.

His hands slid under her shoulderblades, bringing her up; carefully, he resumed his sitting position, bringing her with him so she straddled his lap, never taking his mouth from her breast. He heard her gasp again when his hands slipped down from her shoulderblades to her hips, pulling her hard against him. He experienced a twinge in his side, but ignored it. Her knees were by his thighs, not near the wound. It was the movement that had caused the pain. He could feel the heat of her through his trousers and he moaned into her skin.

"Oh, God, Michael," she whispered passionately.

"I want you so much," he told her, looking up into the face haloed by dark ringlets of hair.

Her hands went to his face, fingers exploring the contours of it. "I don't deserve you," she told him, and he could tell she meant it. He often felt the same about her. How someone like her could so desperately love someone like him.

"Don't talk like that." He reached up, hands running through her dark tresses. "Don't talk . . . just kiss me."

She complied with his request and no more was said about being undeserving. Michael handled her like a treasure, coveting, caressing, breathless in his admiration. Long ago, he'd learned that making love didn't have to necessarily mean having sex, that some of the most erotic, most stimulating sexual encounters had nothing at all to do with actual intercourse, and he prided himself on arousing his partners to dizzying heights of pleasure. The fact that deep emotion was part of this particular liaison made it all the more thrilling and soul-stirring. The touch of her skin was like an aphrodisiac and he reveled in the way her breasts crushed against his chest, her nipples brushing his. He jerked as a stab of pain shot through the surgical site.

"Michael?" Jackie's voice, questioning.

"It's all right," he told her, nibbling her lips. "Just a twinge."

"Sure?" she breathed against his mouth.

"Positive."

His mouth claimed hers again, one hand slipping up to cup under her breast, thumb running over the still-rigid nipple. Inadvertently, she arched up into him and Michael gasped, pulling his mouth from hers and favoring his wound.

With a sigh, Jackie looked at him apologetically. "Sorry."

"It's all right." His voice was tight.

Jackie stared down at him a moment, then moved from his lap, retrieving her bra and putting it back on. Michael reached over, placing his hands over hers.

"No, Jackie. You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do. I'm not going to run around here topless and tempt you when we can't get physical." She finished hooking the bra. "We're just going to have to face it, Michael. We can't do this until you're better."

"I hate it when you're so practical."

She smiled sympathetically. "Settle for Casablanca and some cuddling?"

"Mmm. Yeah, that might mollify me for awhile." He drew a finger down her cheek as she pulled the shirt back on and began buttoning it. "Jackie . . . is there something you need to tell me?"

She stopped for a moment, then pulled her sweater down the rest of the way and looked down at him. For a split second, he thought she was going to get angry at his pressing, but then she shook her head.

"No, Michael."

He touched her lips with his fingers. "You're sure."

She took his hand in hers and placed a kiss on the center of his palm. "Yes."

He looked at her a moment more, then relaxed. "Casablanca or Maltese Falcon?"

"Definitely Casablanca."

They relaxed in each other's arms, watching the black and white video together. Michael stole looks over at Jackie every once in awhile. He caught the troubled look in her eyes and he just knew.

She was lying. Or keeping the truth from him. About what he wasn't sure and he wondered what in the world it was that she felt she could not tell him. Something had happened . . .

He stopped cold. Something had happened up at Hawke's cabin.

As the wineglass toppled by Ingrid Bergman's hand, Michael knew. He knew what she was lying about.

And decided that he had business the next morning to take him to Santini Air to get confirmation.

******************************

It was late morning at Santini Air when Cait and St. John returned from their trip to Texas. They were in marvelously good moods, confirming that their trip had been fun, insightful and pleasant. St. John looked great, his sandy hair now sunbleached and streaked and he looked like a California boy again. They regaled String and Dom with tales of the Alamo and the stylish, elegant old hotels and the ghosts that haunted them. Cait's family had taken to St. John on the spot and he'd practically become family overnight. Dom looked on, about as pleased as a sassy cat who caught the canary.

"We even went to Padre Island for an overnighter on the beach!" Cait said enthusiastically. "St. John found a gold doubloon that washed up on shore. Show them!" she encouraged.

St. John took the gold piece out of his pocket. "Know anybody discreet enough I could get to make this into a necklace for Cait?" he asked.

"No, but Michael probably would," Dom said.

"Hey, how's he doing?" Cait asked, concerned.

"Yeah, is the Spotless Wonder out and about yet?" St. John queried, having adopted the lingo.

"Last I knew he was still in the hospital," String replied neutrally. "Jacks went back to the ranch this morning. And from what I hear, Marella's been pretty much making him tow the mark."

"Good," Dominic said, sifting through his totally unorganized desk.

A white limousine pulled into the airfield's parking lot and Stringfellow Hawke swallowed the hard lump at the base of his throat. It was a given Jackie had talked to Michael by now. She had adamantly refused to be swayed, even last minute, by him when he'd let her off here at the airfield yesterday. She was by God going to tell Michael come hell or high water. When he stepped out of the limo, Michael was the glowing picture of good health. That was encouraging. However, the thunderclouds forming on his brow was not.

"Speak of the devil," Dom commented as Archangel made his way purposefully toward the office.

"Clear out," String said abruptly. "Please," he added in a gentler tone when everyone stared. "We'll be needing some privacy."

Dom frowned as he moved around the desk. "Everything all right, String?"

The younger man shook his head. "Nope."

The three were starting out the door as Michael came in, but Stringknew he'd be plagued with Twenty Questions later.

"Hi!" Cait greeted the Deputy Director, breaking from the group to give him a careful hug. "You're looking good," she told him warmly.

"Thanks. How was Texas?" Michael queried, returning the hug. "And your family?"

"Great! Mama wants everybody to come down for Labor Day. You and Jackie too, Michael." She let him go. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll accept the invitation. She wants to meet you -- you're her hero after you saved her little girl's life."

"Then we'll definitely have to accommodate your mother," Michael placated her. He looked over her shoulder and nodded. "Dom. St. John. How's business?"

"A little slow, but it'll pick up next week," Dom answered. "Glad you're out, Michael. Lookin' good."

"Thanks."

There was an awkward moment of silence, then Dom motioned everyone out. "C'mon. I think I smell a business meeting. We'll see ya."

When they left, Michael sat down in one of the swivel chairs, contemplating Stringfellow for a moment. Finally, he smoothed his moustache with one finger. "Hawke, we have to talk."

"I figured this wasn't a social call," Hawke acknowledged. "Go ahead."

"You've probably already read something about it in the paper," Michael told him. "The body of the man who shot me along with the M.E. who did the autopsy and all the records pertaining to the case was incinerated when the car was forced off the road. It was packed with explosives and someone detonated it when it fell down a canyon." Hawke quirked an eyebrow. "So we still have no idea who my assailant is, and probably won't, now. The only thing we know for sure is that he was trying to get away with a computer printout of everyone -- and I do mean everyone -- associated with Airwolf. Even the pilots."

"You said the guy worked for you," Hawke said slowly.

Michael nodded. "Alpha level computer programmer. He'd been working for me for several months -- ample time to figure out the system and its safeguards. Needless to say, my entire computer department has been reshuffled and overhauled. So I want you and Dom to take whatever extra precautions you have to in order to keep Airwolf safe. If you need hardware, software, whatever, submit an itemized list like you always do."

"Will do."

"Good." Michael got up and started for the door. "I just have one question for you," he said, turning halfway, "and that is, how could you do what you did to her?"

Hawke sighed, closing his eyes, then opening them. "Just tell me you don't blame her, Michael. It was my fault, not hers."

"I should kick your ass."

Hawke averted his eyes for the first time. "I couldn't see beyond my own grief. She tried to stop me, Michael. If I hadn't had those shots of whiskey . . ."

"So you're going to use that for an excuse, hm?" Michael's voice was deceptive in it's softness.

"It only happened once. It'll never happen again. All I can say is I'm sorry."

"Sorry, he says." Michael whirled on him, eyes furious. "Sorry doesn't cut it!"

"Grief makes people do what they wouldn't ordinarily do," String told him evenly. "It was a one-night stand. Something never to be repeated. I swear. Never again."

"A one-night stand." Michael poked the ground with his cane, attention riveted on it.

"Something that never should have happened."

Michael's lips pursed. "No. It shouldn't have happened." He looked up at the pilot. "Hawke, Jackie never mentioned this to me. I knew she was hiding something and wanted to tell me, but she didn't."

String felt a blow to his solar plexus that had no physical explanation. His stomach overturned and a wave of nausea overtook him. Damn it! His own guilt had tripped him into one of Michael's very well-laid traps.

"Michael, she's not to blame!" Hawke suddenly half-shouted. "It was MY doing!"

"So are you saying you raped her?" Michael asked tightly.

Hawke was taken aback at the question. "You know I'd never do that!"

"Then how was it YOUR doing if she was willing?"

"You don't get it, Michael. You just don't get it."

"No. I don't get it. I was under the mistaken impression you were my friend." He closed his eyes painfully, then opened them and gave Hawke his back as he went out the door.

When the limo lumbered out of the airfield, St. John, Dom and Cait edged inside the door, having heard snatches of the heated discussion.

"Everything OK?" St. John asked, concerned.

String shook his head. "I have major-league fucked up."

"How bad, String?" Dom was at his elbow, hand on his shoulder. "What could you have done to get Michael that upset?"

Hawke blinked back the almost-tears that were starting to form in his eyes. "I lost control," he replied quietly, "and just paid a helluva high price for it."

******************************

Am I wrong? Jackie thought to herself as she set out the chilling Beluga caviar and crackers. Am I wrong to keep this secret? Hawke was right, I shouldn't have even entertained the thought. But then, I shouldn't have slept with Hawke to begin with.

She'd set up a small round of Brie, a dozen raw oysters and a bottle of Dom Perignon. The lights were dimmed for a more relaxed atmosphere and Mozart filled the room. Michael's ranch could be transformed into a very romantic place after dark.

The evening called for a shower and change into a black evening mini. She was hoping that she could manipulate the evening in such a way to satisfy Michael's physical desires to some extent. She'd enjoyed their erotic interlude yesterday and maybe, if she could get him to be more passive, she could give him the pleasure he'd given her. It was worth a shot.

But could she? Or would her guilt trip her up like it almost did yesterday? How could she have made love to Stringfellow Hawke when it was Michael she desired so intensely in every way? What in the world had triggered her to react in such a manner? A tear fell down her cheek at the thought and she glanced at the calendar up on the wall.

"Gabrielle," she murmured softly. "How could I forget?"

She'd fought him -- fought the magnetism, the obvious sexual attraction. If she hadn't read Michael's letter earlier that day and if her own head had been on straight, it probably would never have happened. She would have favored him with her infamous right cross and would never have let it go as far as it did. But his tears had melted her heart, his sobbing had tortured her mind. And when full realization hit her, when the significance of that day had sunk in, her own overwhelming emotions brought on by reading Michael's letter put into motion actions that could never be called back. What had happened couldn't be blamed on one thing or one person. It was a combination of factors that had quite simply gotten out of hand because of vulnerability and grief. It couldn't be excused, but blame would be an extremely difficult thing to place. She simply hadn't known how to tell a tortured soul with one foot in hell and the other in purgatory no any longer.

Her intentions to tell Michael had probably been in the right, but risking Hawke's and Michael's friendship . . . she had decided she wasn't ready to do that. Hawke had been right. It could at least wait for awhile. Maybe it would never be necessary to tell Michael at all. Maybe it was one secret she could handle keeping.

The click of the front door arrested her attention and Michael stepped inside. He assessed the surroundings for a moment before he hung his cane and hat up. When his eye fell upon her, his face was unreadable. Something was subtly different about him and it made Jackie more than a little uncomfortable.

"Very nice," he conceded, approaching her. He let her hug him, but did not return it. "What's the occasion?"

"You're home." She leaned back with a smile. "Can't I do something nice for you?"

Michael tilted his head, moving past her. He took the chilling bottle of champagne from the bucket and popped the cork expertly. Only a little froth bubbled to the floor and he filled the tulip glasses, handing one to her as they seated themselves on the sofa. "What should we drink to?" he queried.

"How about . . . to new beginnings?" she suggested, holding her glass up.

He tilted his head again. "To new beginnings, then," he agreed, clinking his glass to hers. "And to the shedding of old baggage."

"Cheers."

Each sipped the wonderful spirit, maintaining a few moments of amicable silence. Finally, Michael sat back.

"Now," he said quietly, "perhaps you'll tell me what's bothering you. Why you left Hawke's cabin early. You've never come back a second early before. You'd find excuses to stay longer."

The champagne suddenly felt like ice in her veins. Jackie held onto a calm she didn't feel. "You'd never been shot when I was up there before. Hawke's cabin is wonderful. But I was missing you too much."

"That's a lovely sentiment." He took another sip of champagne and pulled her into his side carefully. "It's . . . unfortunate my present physical condition is so detrimental to our love life . . ."

"Shh. That doesn't matter." She reached up to kiss his cheek. "I'm not really expecting anything. I just want to be here with you. Just like this. Nothing more, if you don't want. I love you."

"Do you?"

She frowned fleetingly, placing her glass on the coffeetable. She loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first couple of buttons of his shirt. "Of course I do. You know I do. Don't tease me. I left Chicago, didn't I? Packed up all my stuff and moved here, never knowing how things were going to work out."

"So you did." He watched as her long, delicate fingers undid his buttons and spread his shirt open, pulling off his tie to let it fall to the floor. Her mouth brushed the bare flesh of his chest in repeated caress. He drew in a shuddering breath. "Jackie. Angel."

He sighed and she continued, noticing how he put down his now-uninteresting glass of champagne next to hers. He gently forced her beneath him, gazing down into her face.

"Tell me what you're upset about," he prodded gently, mouth brushing her chin.

She looped her arms around his neck. "Nothing. Just worried about you. About you going back to work the minute you got out of the hospital. About you overworking . . ."

He brushed her hair back from her forehead and his eyes were surprisingly sad. "You're sure that's all it was?"

"I worry about you, OK? I worry you'll overdo it."

She still couldn't read him very well and that bothered Jackie a little bit. However, her misgivings vanished when he placed a tender kiss on her mouth. Her indrawn breath caused her lips to part and then she felt his tongue entwine with hers, plunging deeply down her throat, a kiss more consuming than she'd ever experienced, from him or any other man. Long moments later, he lifted his head to look into her eyes again.

"Did you like that?"

"God, yes." Her body was on fire.

He kissed her eyes, the bridge of her nose, her chin, and then took her mouth again. She moaned against his lips.

"Jackie?" he whispered in her ear, teeth tugging sensually at the lobe.

"Yes?" Her nails dug into his back through the suitjacket.

"How does that feel, sweetheart?"

"Like I'm going to have an orgasm just from you kissing me." Her hold tightened and she arched her neck back. "Oh, Michael. God, don't stop. Don't stop."

His tongue swept the perimeter of her lips. "Is that," he asked, repeatedly kissing her mouth, "what you told Stringfellow Hawke when the two of you made love?"

The words cut through Jackie's heart like a knife and she stared up at him in abject shock. He stared back steadily, gaze unwavering. Michael knew. Somehow, Michael found out.

"String . . . told you." Her voice trembled.

Michael casually sat back up, lifting his glass of champagne to his lips. "He made an assumption," he said, taking a sip, "that you trusted me."

Jackie curled up on the end of the sofa, one hand at her mouth, legs under her. Her sense of shock metamorphosed into a stabbing pain of agony in her gut. She looked away. "This cannot be happening."

Michael got to his feet, stepping over to the picture window that led out onto the deck. "That's what I said." There was a lengthy pause and he took another sip of champagne. "I want you to go. Now."

"Michael . . ."

"Don't argue with me. Just go."

"It was a mistake!" Jackie sprang from the sofa and approached his nearly-still figure. "Michael . . . after all that's happened . . . don't do this.

"Don't do what?" He whirled on her, face contorted with anger and hurt. "I did nothing! You did this, Jackie. You. Nobody else."

"I can't justify what happened, Michael! It shouldn't have happened. But it happened! I'm not proud of it."

"You lied to me." Michael's voice shook. "I gave you every opportunity to come clean. I told that you could tell me anything. I could have even forgiven you this indiscretion if you'd only told me the truth when I asked you. What I can't forgive is you lying to me and your lack of trust." His eyes blazed and then he turned from her again. "I want you out, Jacquelyn Leigh. I want you out tonight." He took another swallow. "I'm sure Hawke can find room for you," he insinuated sourly.

"Haven't you ever made a mistake?" Jackie asked desperately. "Haven't you had any regrets?!"

Michael stepped up to her closely. There wasn't even a hair's breadth between them and his voice shook when he spoke. "The only mistake I ever made was you."

He swung away, leaving her stunned as he retreated into the master bedroom, shutting the door with a decided bang.

After standing in shock for almost a full minute, Jackie's shoulders sagged. She didn't remember leaving the ranch or even getting into her Jag. She didn't remember driving down the highway toward a deserted stretch of beach, parking on the shoulder or making her way down to the shoreline. She couldn't recall climbing a mound of rocks and watching the tide.

When light began to diffuse the early morning skies, only then did realization hit her and tears began to fall. She'd ruined three lives. String's, Michael's and her own. The enormity of it hit her like a ton weight and she found herself thinking about returning to Chicago.

"No." She was surprised she said the word out loud. "No, goddamn it. You're not going to run away again. No way in hell. You're too good at that and for feeling sorry for yourself. For once, be an adult." She angrily swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. "Wipe the damn tears and start acting like a woman."

A woman.

She heaved a sigh. "A woman alone," she murmured, walking back to her car. "But a woman nevertheless."

******************************

Dominic Santini was basically a quiet man, who enjoyed his life such as it was, with the occasional thrills of working for Michael. He would never, of course, admit that he liked being where the action was, but it was good to know that a man of his years was still valued, both as a person and a pilot. Grudgingly, he had to commend Michael for a great many things, not least of all upholding his part of the bargain with Stringfellow. Michael's involvement in the CIA was always a point of contention with Dom. He didn't like the idea of a 'secret police force' in a country that was supposed to be free. But then, he reflected, how free were people, really? Only as free as the upper eschelons were willing to make them. It was not the original vision of the founding fathers, that was for sure. Still, he couldn't think of a better place to live in terms of national freedoms.

Truth be told, he felt about Michael not unlike he felt about String and St. John -- maybe not as close and maybe not so much a father figure. After all, how close could one get to a Deputy Director of covert operations? When String had brought Jackie home that day from the cabin, Dom automatically knew something was wrong. Wisely, he'd said nothing, waiting for String to broach the subject, if he ever would. Never far away from his office, Dom had caught the gist of the conversation between Michael and String. He had to admit to a certain amount of unbelief and shock, but after that, he only felt sadness. And when String had mentioned the significance of the date to St. John in their muted conversation afterwards, everything kind of fell into place, and Dom understood just exactly what the motivation on String's part had been. He doubted String had been even remotely himself when the interlude between he and Jackie had taken place. Dom knew human nature well enough that from the mere bits and pieces he picked up over the next few days helped him piece together what had happened without having the episode explained.

Somehow, it didn't surprise Dom that he found the agent at their jazz haunt of Garbo's. As upset as he was, he wouldn't even be here if he didn't think Jackie would be there at some point, which was precisely why she never joined them on Fridays after work anymore. She'd returned to work at Santini Air about three days after the incident, having set up housekeeping at the Raddison until her beach house was vacated and she could move in. She seemed like her regular self most of the time, but he knew it was an act and that she was very unhappy. He hadn't had the nerve or the heart to ask Jackie about her side of the story. Even given her past history with men, Dom couldn't believe that when she finally had what she wanted most, that she would have chucked it all for one careless night with String, even if there had been a mutual sexual attraction. She'd been through enough changes that he just couldn't believe it of her. Something had to have been going on with her too, that night, and whatever it was, she was too weak and/or vulnerable to fight it. It was the only acceptable explanation.

"So," Dom said, sitting down at the table beside the white-clad agent. "Since when do you come here alone?" he asked, taking a swallow of beer.

"Since when do you?" Michael returned, saluting Dom with a glass of white wine.

"String, Cait and St. John are going to be here in about half an hour. Y'know, if you're hoping to run into Jackie . . ."

"I'm not," the agent interrupted darkly. "I came here to enjoy some jazz."

"Well, good, then. But in case you might want to know where she is . . ."

"I don't."

"You're just as stubborn as she is, you moose."

Michael spared him an aggrieved look. "Lay off, Dominic. Jackie is not a subject I care to discuss."

"Well that's too bad, because I do."

"Then go discuss her with somebody who actually gives a damn."

"You give a damn. You've just got too much pride to admit it."

Angrily, Michael shoved his chair back and rose. Dom got up at the same time, stepping closer to Michael until he was almost nose-to-nose with him. Abruptly, Michael drew back, surprised at the close proximity. Dom smiled lopsidedly.

"Sit down, Michael," he directed quietly. "Let's not make a scene. I know how much you dislike scenes."

The Deputy Director's jaw flexed. He weighed the situation for a moment, then surrounded himself with his cloak of pride and resumed his seat. "I don't know what you could possibly think you'd have to say that would interest me, Dominic."

"Maybe not. But humor an old man." Dom sat down again. "What is it you're really mad about, Michael? The fact she slept with Hawke? The fact she didn't tell you? Or the fact that you weren't exactly . . . shall we say . . . faithful when she was gone those months to Chicago, and then you finding out she has the audacity to mimic you?"

Michael cast the older man a murderous look. "Those women meant nothing. Not like she does."

"But you still slept with them, didn't you? Even managed to slide Kiki out from under String's nose, didn't ya?"

Michael was quiet. "What's your point, Dominic?"

"Maybe String didn't mean that much to Jackie. Not as a lover, anyway. Like Kiki didn't mean all that much to you. Maybe what happened up there at the cabin was beyond either one of their control."

"Why should that visit up to his cabin have been different?" Michael suddenly thundered. He quieted when he noticed some of the patrons looking over at them. "I'll admit, even in the beginning of the Airwolf training when she was spending so much time up there with him, I suspected. When they told me nothing was going on, I believed them. I had no reason to not believe it this time. Look what happened."

"And you want to know why."

"Yeah. I guess I do. I want to try and understand why, after all we've been through together, after our relationship has changed so dramatically and started going in the direction we've both wanted for so long, she sleeps with someone I considered a good friend."

"I guess I can sympathize with you on that. If I was in your shoes, I'd want to know why, too." Dom sighed, sitting back. "Were you aware that it was the anniversary of Gabrielle's death?"

Michael suddenly looked up, eyes widening.

"Yeah," Dom confirmed. "You know how messed up Hawke gets this time every year. Frankly, it slipped my mind. He drinks, Michael. More on that day than any other. He holes himself up in the cabin and drinks himself into oblivion. I don't think he did that this time, not with Jackie up there. I think he might have . . . used another outlet. And I think there must have been something going on with Jacks, too. Under ordinary circumstances, there is no way in hell String and Jackie would have ever been lovers. String told me she made that very clear in the beginning." He paused. "You got any ideas as to why she might have let it happen?"

Michael sat silently for the longest time. He contemplated his glass of wine, took a sip, then put it back down. "Maybe."

"So maybe she's not the little slut you think she is, huh?"

"She's NOT . . ." He lowered his voice. "I never thought she was a slut. She got around, I'll admit. But if she's a slut, I'm worse than she is." He shook his head. "I just have a hard time accepting that she slept with String."

"Well, they betrayed you. I'm not saying they didn't. People do a lot of crazy things for a lot of different reasons, even for reasons they think might justify their actions. You've done it, too. I've done it. We all have. I guess it all boils down to one point, and that is, do you love her enough to forgive her? And do you care enough about String to forgive him?"

"I don't know, Dom."

"Well, when you figure it out, I imagine they'll be hangin' around the airfield."

Dom got up and left the table, going to the bar to perch comfortably on a bar stool. When he ordered a round of drinks for his friends about twenty minutes later and tried to pay for them, the bartender wouldn't accept his money.

"Your friend in white picked up the tab," the bartender said goodnaturedly. "For the whole night."

Dom was surprised at first, then smiled. Michael might not actually say thank you, but when he did, you knew it.

******************************

TWO MONTHS LATER

"Will you be staying, Sir?" Marella asked as Michael contemplated the open area of the Knightsbridge grounds from the vantage point of his leather chair.

"Not long. You can lock up Special Projects," he replied distractedly.

"Goodnight, then." She turned to go out the side door.

"Marella?"

She turned. "Yes, Sir?"

He motioned for her to sit down in the white leather chair before his desk. The darkhaired operative complied. A long moment passed as he sat in contemplation, fingers steepled in front of his face. Finally, he looked up at her.

"Was I wrong?"

Marella tilted her head. "Wrong about what, Sir?"

Michael leaned back. "You know what I mean. You've noticed that Jackie's been gone. That I haven't been in contact with her for quite some time now. The two of you have been friends for a long time."

"Yes, Sir."

"And I know that you've been to see her just lately."

Marella was quiet for a moment. "Yes, Sir. Only because I was concerned."

"I imagine you were concerned about her."

"No, Sir. About you." She looked down at her hands. "It wasn't easy to get the story, but she told me. I can't say I was very sympathetic." Marella locked her gaze to his. "No, Sir. You weren't wrong. She betrayed you. How else could you react? How else could anyone react?"

"Yeah. How else?" He rubbed his forehead. "How is she? Is she still at the Raddison?"

"Yes. She moves into her house next week, I believe. When we talked, she didn't give me a real assessment of her feelings. She didn't give any excuses either. Then, she asked me to leave."

Michael was quiet again. "Thank you, Marella. You can go."

"Yes, Sir." She rose to leave, hesitating when she reached the door. Then, she turned. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"September 1980. Lauren Burke."

Michael's face immediately hardened and he looked away. "That . . . was not the same."

"It seems to me that the two of you were in a similar situation at the time," Marella continued as he glared. Marella stood her ground. "Sir, I would never use that to hurt you. My first loyalty is to you, always. What Jackie did was indefensible."

Michael looked at his hands. "I guess we've all been there at one time or another, haven't we?"

"I was just remarking on how similar the two situations seemed to be."

The Deputy Director swiveled back to gaze out the window again. "Thank you, Marella. Good night."

He heard her walk through the door, then pause before going through it. "Goodnight, Michael."

It closed with an almost inaudible thud.

******************************

Jackie slid out from under the chopper, rubbing her nose to stop a sneeze. The fuel line now replaced, the chopper was ready to go. She saw Stringfellow walk in the hangar and motioned him over. Hawke pocketed his sunglasses and approached as she rose to her feet.

"I just replaced the fuel line. Would you slip under quick and do a check. Make sure everything's right?"

"Sure." String lay down on teh roller and moved underneath. After a few moments, he slid back out and joined her. "It's good. Nice job."

"Thanks." She wiped off her hands with a rag and turned to leave.

"Hey," he called out to her as she stepped into the sunshine. "Wait up. You doing anything tonight?"

She shrugged. "I don't make any hard and fast plans anymore."

"Garbo's after work? St. John, Cait, Dom, Tony and me . . . we're all going."

"No thanks. Raincheck?"

"Sure. I just hate to see you by yourself all the time."

"I'm used to it. I don't mind it. In fact . . . a lot of time I prefer it."

"No you don't. I'm the anti-social one in this outfit."

Jackie said nothing as they walked toward Dom's office. She went directly to the coffeepot, grabbed a ceramic mug and poured herself some, taking a deep drink.

"C'mon, at least think about it," Hawke cajoled.

"All right. I'll think about it."

Dominic Santini walked through the door, hitching up his pants at the beltline. "Is it ready yet, Jacks?"

"Just finished, Dom," she answered. "String double-checked it for me."

"Huh. Like your work needs double-checking," Dom said with a grin. "How's the beach house coming?"

"Almost all moved in and unpacked," she informed them nonchalantly. "Cait's been helping me when she's not with St. John."

"Good! Maybe when you're all done and get settled a little more, we can have a barbeque or clambake or somethin'," Dom suggested.

"Yeah, I'll have to let you know what my social calendar looks like, I'm so in demand," Jackie told them sarcastically. There was dead silence as she took another drink of coffee. Then, she looked up at Hawke and Dom as they stared at her. "Hey, it was a joke, guys! Laugh already." She moved to exit the office, standing outside to watch Cait coming in for a landing with one of the Pipers. She felt String's arm around her shoulders and moved away almost at once.

"Hey."

Reluctantly, she met his eyes. "What?"

"I'm not coming onto you. I won't jump you. You know that."

She dropped her gaze, a little ashamed. "Sorry. I know you aren't, and I know you won't. It's just . . . it's me, String. I have to get beyond that night, and it's hard."

"I know it is. But do you need to cringe everytime I touch you?"

"Don't take it personally. Guilt has a way of doing that."

"Get over it, Jacks. It's done."

"Yep. It sure is."

"Beating yourself up about it doesn't change a thing. Are you coming with us tonight or not?"

"Not."

"Fine. If you change your mind . . ." He broke off.

Jackie looked up and followed his gaze to the front gate. The trademark white limousine pulled through the chainlink fence. Jackie drew her breath in sharply.

"You gonna bolt?"

Her nostrils flared and she snorted. "Hell, no. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction."

"Good girl."

"Call me a girl again and I'll deck you."

"C'mon," String said, steering her back toward the office again. "I think you could use a little more motor oil. You're runnin' way too rough."

Dom was gone and Jackie sat back in his chair, feet propped up comfortably on the desk. Michael stepped in, stopping, assessing them both for a moment.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" String asked casually, refusing to back down from Archangel's gaze.

"Business," he answered, not unexpectedly, leaning on the cane. He looked over at Jackie. "Do you mind?"

"Not a bit." She folded her hands in front of her and leaned back against the wall.

Michael's jaw worked a moment. "That was an invitation to leave."

Jackie took her sweet time vacating Dom's chair and passed by him with the most calm and serene of expressions.

"Time for me to clock out anyway," she told them. "Um, String, I may meet you guys at Garbo's after all. I have to stop home first. See you around, say, five?"

"We'll hold a chair for you," String said with just a hint of a smile.

Michael reached out and took her arm. She stopped abruptly, her gaze aloof. "And your reason for detaining me is what?"

"Don't leave," he told her. I need to talk to you."

"I've got things to do." She extricated her arm pointedly, eyes never wavering from his.

He took her arm again. "Don't leave, Jackie. I mean it. It's important."

"Sure it is."

His gripped tightened a bit painfully. "Please."

"Please. Nice touch." For a long moment, Jackie looked into his face which gave nothing away. Finally, she said, "You know where my beach house is?"

"I'm sure I can find it."

"Good. I'll wait for you there."

Satisfied with the compromise, he released her arm. Jackie looked at him for a moment longer, then turned and left.

******************************

"So," String said once she was gone, "what do you want, Michael?"

"That budget for Airwolf. I've got to get it turned in so it can be approved. Meeting's day after tomorrow."

"Right here." String pulled it out of a file cabinet and handed him a couple of sheets of loose paper.

Michael took the proffered estimations, placing them in his briefcase. "You can expect approval. I just need everything in writing." He paused. "So. Going to Garbo's for a little R&R after work, huh?"

"It's our Friday night tradition," String confirmed. "Jazz and blues is something everybody can agree on."

"Hm."

String shrugged. "Come on along, if you want to. Or are you still hanging up on your cross?"

Michael looked up sharply. "In case you've forgotten, Hawke, I was the injured party in this mess." He paused, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Be that as it may, I haven't come here to sucker punch you anymore."

"I screwed up, Michael. Bigtime. I could apologize until Doomsday. What more can I say to you?"

"Nothing, I guess." He rested against Dom's desk. "You're forgiven, Stringfellow. I can't hold it against you anymore."

"Why? Because of Airwolf?"

"I'd be a liar if I said that wasn't part of it," he told the pilot. "We've always had a user/usee relationship. But that's not all of it. I think you know that."

"It was one night, Michael. It won't be repeated." String paused. "And at the risk of pissing you off more, as messed up as I was, as she was, we weren't making love with each other."

"I know. The fact it was like that and that it was just a one-night stand makes it easier to forgive."

"Thanks."

Michael sighed, placing his cane across his lap. "I'm going to reconcile with her, Hawke."

String contemplated the Deputy Director. "You better talk to her soon. You waited too long the last time. I'm sure she's got no intention of running back to Chicago again, but we both know she has a tendency to be self-destructive once the numbness wears off. You better tell her you love her and you better do it quick."

"Obviously. But I can't go back with a mere 'I love you' and expect her to want me back."

"She might surprise you. She did me when she came back. She's grown up a lot."

"I've noticed." He ran a hand through his silver-blonde hair. "This whole thing has the earmarks of a soap opera, only nobody's watching."

String smiled at that. "You two are gonna do all right. You'll be fine."

Michael rose from the edge of Dom's desk and headed toward the door. Once there, he stopped. "Hawke?"

"Yeah, Michael?"

"Hypothetically speaking . . . if you were Jackie . . . would you still be in love with me?"

Hawke approached and looked him straight in the eye. "Michael, if I was Jackie . . . I wouldn't have fallen in love with you to begin with."

Michael quirked his eyebrow. "Probably damn good advice."

"Yeah, but I'm not her. So get out of here and go talk to her."

Michael nodded. "I will. Thanks, Stringfellow."

"I didn't do anything."

"Don't be so modest," Michael chastised him, striding out the door. "It doesn't become you."

******************************

Jackie's beach house was on a secluded beach, down below the highway via an access road, not far away from Dom's airfield. She'd bought the surrounding beachfront to insure privacy, a commodity she'd grown to covet, especially as of late. Besides, it was nice to have a stretch of your own beach to walk on at any hour of the day or night. Some rather large rocks were strewn along the beach halfway down to the ocean, and Jackie sat on one of the flat ones on top of an outcropping, staring at the whitecaps as they gently rolled in. The sky was overcast now at the onset of late afternoon. The ocean breeze brought with it a salty odor that blew over her, lifting up her strands of dark hair. This was heaven. Nothing like Chicago with it's constant hustle and bustle and ongoing stress just below the line of calm. She could get used to this lifestyle, flying for Dom, working occasionally for The Firm, living near the ocean. If she had someone to share the life with.

When Michael arrived at Santini Air, Jackie had expected him to totally ignore her at the very least, barely acknowledge her presence at the most. The fact he had even spoken directly to her was a shock. That he wanted further dialogue was piquing her interest even more. A little surge of hope rose inside her, but reality pushed it down. Michael probably just wanted to know if she still wanted to work for The Firm. If she said no, she probably wouldn't see him much except for his occasional forays into Santini Air. If she continued to work for The Firm, she might get to see him more often. She sighed. Maybe she should ask him what he could live with. If he preferred she quit, she supposed she would do it. She'd hurt him enough already. It would be bad judgement to hang around as a continual reminder.

"Jesus, Kendricks, some people would call that a sensible, adult decision," she murmured to herself, watching as the waves crashed in, creating magnificent spray.

But she couldn't second guess Michael. She'd learned long ago never to do that. He was not a man to be trifled with, by anyone. Even his superiors had sufficient reason to fear him. Michael didn't get to be where he was by letting people get the upper hand with him. He played the game of deception well, could be absolutely cold-hearted when the occasion called for it. He kept his emotions in constant, rigid check; the only time she had seen them show was in the company of people he cared about -- and they were few. Even then, he was guarded and sometimes suspicious, constantly expecting betrayal. Well, she'd done that. The one thing she feared the most -- that Michael had feared the most from her. And from Stringfellow Hawke.

"You really screwed up, Kendricks," she said to herself. "You cost two incredible men a wonderful friendship and yourself a relationship with the one man you love most in all the world. Yeah. That was an adult thing to do."

"Do you talk to yourself often?"

Jackie whirled to see Michael standing by the outcropping of rock. She let her breath out slowly. "Christ. You scared the hell out of me."

"Then you must have been rather deep in thought. You've been taught too well to not have heard me." He climbed up beside her and sat down. "Nice view. You do know how to pick them."

"I usually know what I want. It's just a matter of getting it."

"I taught you pretty well about that, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. You also taught me about friendship, and I managed to mess that up. Why are you here, Michael? Waiting to get slapped around some more? How much more of a beating do you want?"

"I thought we were done throwing punches. We have some things to talk about."

Jackie threw a rock. "If you want me to quit working for you, I understand."

He was quiet a moment. "I don't want you to quit, but don't drag me into the decision. That's not why I came here, anyway."

She looked over at his profile. "Why are you here, then?"

His eyes met hers. "I'm here because I love you, Jackie."

She looked away, threw another rock. "If you're saying that out of some misguided sense of honor . . ."

She felt his hands grab her forearms and he jerked her closer. "Damn it, Jackie! I said I love you!" His intensity shot through her like a bullet. She stared, then glanced down at his large hands encompassing her arms like a vice. He followed her gaze and then self-consciously loosed her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to manhandle you."

"Stop apologizing. I'm the one who screwed everything up. There's nothing you can say that I haven't told myself already. Although I love you wasn't exactly what I was expecting."

"I told you, I'm through throwing punches," Michael reiterated. "I've been reminded on a couple of counts that I'm not always as lily-white as I appear to come off. I do have feet of clay on occasion."

"Yeah. But you didn't sleep with your potential lover's best friend."

"No. I slept with a good friend's wife."

Jackie stared at him. "You? That wasn't in your letter."

Michael grimaced. "Seven years ago. It was a situation remarkably like this one. I made the same mistake you did."

Jackie looked down at her hands. "I seem to be making a lot of the same mistakes everyone else in this business has been making when it comes to my private life." She looked over at him again. "Hard to believe, Michael. I thought you always did the right thing, no matter what."

"Well, now you know I can screw things up, too." He sighed. "It didn't make it right, in either of our situations. But I understand where you were coming from." He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "See? Your old man can learn to grow up, too."

Jackie was silent for a long moment. "Will you forgive me, Michael?"

"Isn't that what I've been saying?" When she didn't answer, he pulled her close. "Yes, sweetheart. I forgive you. Can you forgive yourself?"

That stunned her. "I . . . don't know. Maybe. Someday."

"I love you," he repeated gently. "I love you and I want us to be together. No matter what. We can start over here and now. The past can stay where it is. We don't have to visit it unless we want to." He tipped her chin around. "When I gave you that letter to read, I guess I expected you to go along with all the terms and guidelines I set down and never gave you a chance to talk with me about it. That's what was bothering you, wasn't it?"

She nodded in surprised confirmation. "Score two for The Man in White. You're more insightful than I ever gave you credit for," Jackie admitted. "Yeah. It intimidated me. I thought what was in that letter was etched in stone -- you know. My way or the highway. It's how you deal with everything in your work. I was assuming it was the same way with this."

"I'm so used to being in charge, Jackie. You have to keep reminding me it's about us."

Jackie smiled a little. They were both learning a little bit today. "Are you sure either one of us is ready for something like this, Michael?"

"Hell, no. But then, we both always liked a challenge."

Her arms slipped around his waist and she laughed as she laid her head on his shoulder. "I love you."

"The same back. So," he said, pulling her tightly to him, "wanna go steady?"

She laughed again. "Yeah. Could be fun!"

He tipped her face around and covered her mouth in a kiss. She started against him, then practically melted in his arms. His tongue teased hers without mercy. When she tried to deepen the contact, he pulled back a fraction, placing elusive, teasing kisses all about her mouth. Their bubbling passion was obvious. After a few lovely moments, he leaned back reluctantly.

"I have a surprise for you back at the house," he told her. "Come on."

He climbed down from the rocks and then lifted her down and they walked arm-in-arm toward the beach house. The limousine he came in was gone and they mounted the back deck, stepping through the sliding glass doors into the living room, done in white and deep mahogany woods. She had picked up a flamboyance in decorating from her mother, Sara; moonscapes and predatory birds dominated the decor. A huge painting of Jim Morrison stared down at them petulantly from one side of the room. A fire burned in the fireplace. Vangelis filled the room with their ethereal magic. A bottle of champagne chilled by the sofa with a chilling bowel of strawberries along with some caviar and cracker rounds.

"You were real sure of yourself," Jackie said, letting him lead her to the sofa to sit down.

"I was sure of you. I knew you still loved me." He took the already-opened bottle of champagne and poured it into matching tulip glasses, placing the bottle back into the bed of ice and handing her one of the glasses.

He clinked his glass to hers. "To new beginnings," he toasted softly.

She smiled. "To new beginnings," she agreed, as they sipped the Dom Perignon.

Michael took their glasses and set them down on the table, then reached for her, pulling her close. Long moments passed as they merely lay in each other's arms, watching the crackling fire.

Finally Michael broke the silence. "Jackie?"

"Hm?" She was feeling wonderfully lethargic and warm.

"I'm . . . still not quite up to snuff, sweetheart. My incision is still pretty tender."

"What's the hurry?" she asked softly. "I know we both want more, but . . at one time, you did mention . . . other things . . ."

"I did, didn't I?" He smiled, kissing the hair on top of her head. "Honey?"

"Hm?"

"When it feels like I'm taking over the relationship, tell me, will you?"

Her eyes turned up to his. "I'll do that." She trailed a finger down his cheek. "But bear in mind -- sometimes I love it when you take over." She traced his lips with her finger. "It gets me really hot."

He smiled broadly. "You're something." His hand brushed her cheek and the look in his face was tender. "Will you allow me the pleasure of taking over at this particular moment?"

Jackie looped her arms around his neck. "Mm, you mentioned that lovely word, pleasure. Please do."

His mouth was bare centimeters from hers and she closed the space between them, giving in to the inevitable warmth of his embrace and kiss, floating in a newfound power and surrender.

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END PART II

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Susan Rossi, Webmistress
July 23, 1999
shewolf75@hotmail.com