SERAPH
Part I
By Linda Ryner

**seraph (ser*af) n. member of the highest order of angels [Heb.]

--New Webster's Dictionary

PROLOGUE

The Hole

October 17, 1992

Welcome to my home. It is home, you know. Sorry about the décor, but THEY don't keep up much around here with House Beautiful. But I've got all I need here. A bed. A table. A chair. A toilet. THEY even bring me newspapers once in awhile so I can see what's going on in the outside world.

Or at least, what THEY want me to see of it.

Who are THEY? Not my warden. Not my guards.

THEY. THEY are . . .

The Committee. The Company. The C.I.A. Take your pick.

Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be covert agents . . .

THEY kill your spirit. That's the whole purpose of being here. So THEY can kill you without leaving a mark on you. So the liberals can't come back on them and accuse them of murder.

But make no mistake.

Capital punishment would be a godsend.

I've been here six years. Two-thousand, one hundred and ninety days. Or is that two-thousand one hundred and ninety-one? I can never figure those leap years right.

Six years.

Oh, I keep busy. I even had a pet once.

Fred The Cockroach.

He wasn't just any old cockroach. Nope. Fred was the Green Giant of Cockroaches. He was the Hercules of Cockroaches. That sucker could literally move my mattress, he was so goddamn huge. I kept him in a little cardboard box. That old cockroach and I got to be pretty good pals -- knew each other for four years. Confided in each other, comforted each other, told each other war stories. Then one night I got up to pee and when I stepped toward the toilet, CRUNCH. Fred had gone AWOL on me and escaped his confinement.

Damn. I loved that cockroach.

One minute banging into the leg of my metal frame bed, the next in Cockroach Heaven.

I cried for a week.

There's one prison guard here -- everyone calls her Big Sally -- who's not so bad. Big Sally is just that -- big, blonde and bodacious. She has a warm southern twang when she speaks and is friendly as can be. She even slips me magazines and tabloids from time-to-time, uncensored. Goes on about her daughter and her grand-kids and even lets me watch soaps with her through the bars when she brings her little portable TV to plug in during her watch. Great gal, that Sally. But I wouldn't piss her off, 'cause when she gets pissed off, she's 300 pounds of raging bull and Doberman Pinscher.

Once a day, I get an hour in the recreation hall -- the extent of my social life. Usually I spend it working out in the gym area. I was never flabby and I had a pretty good body to begin with. I'm thirty-four and still have the body of a 20-year-old thanks to almost-daily workouts. In fact, I'm better than I was before. I'm a buff chick -- biceps and all.

Sometimes I think about writing a letter -- to HIM -- and asking Big Sally to smuggle it out for me. My assets are currently tied up because I'm here in this hell-hole, but Sally knows I have money. I think that's the big reason she's pretty nice to me. Probably thinks there's something in it for her when I get out of here.

If I get out of here. My original sentence is for thirteen years. I'm not even at the halfway mark yet.

Every time I think about writing a letter to HIM, I feel the fury rise inside. After all -- HE'S the one letting me rot here in this prison called The Hole.

Do you know why I'm here?

No, not for murder. Not for conspiracy. Not for any of those things.

I'm here for one reason alone.

I'm here because of love.

Don't laugh. It's true.

Don't laugh. And don't ever think it can't happen to you.

I'm living proof that it can.

THEY can twist everything that you are, everything that you stand for and take everything that you care about and make it ugly.

THEY can make it real ugly.

THEY do it all the time, when it suits THEIR needs.

THEY did it to me.

THEY can do it to you.

Don't think for a moment that if it's beneficial to THEM or if it suits THEIR plans, that THEY won't throw you in this Hole.

Because THEY have.

And THEY will.

And THEY will continue to do so.

I had a life before I came here. I thought it was a good life. I enjoyed my work. I was good at it. I was on the road to promotion and had it made.

And then, I had to give in to my feelings and fall in love.

Once, a long time ago, my boss, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs The Third, told me never to make the mistake of falling in love with him.

I should have listened. The warning was there. I knew better.

I went ahead and did it anyway.

I have six years of confinement behind me and seven ahead.

Let me explain to you, when I get out of here in seven years, why I am going to hunt down Michael Coldsmith-Briggs.

And kill him.

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

MID-MAY, 1978

I guess if I had to choose one word that described Michael Coldsmith-Briggs The Third it would be charming. At least, that's the first descriptive word that comes to mind. Intelligent would be another. Meticulous. Patriotic. Noble.

There are still others. Stubborn. Brusque. Detached. Overbearing bordering on tyrannical on occasion. And sometimes, he can be a real pain-in-the-ass.

He's my boss.

So how did a quiet Midwestern girl end up employed by The Firm, you ask? Well . . . it wasn't exactly my idea. In fact, becoming a CIA operative was the furthest thing from my mind.

Until I met Michael Coldsmith-Briggs The Third.

It was May of 1978. Final exams were in full swing. My major was music -- specifically in the teaching field -- and I had a lot to concentrate on. Not only did I have written exams to face down, but also performance exams in the fields of Voice, Piano, Organ and Harpsichord. It was about that time that the CIA showed up on the Drake University Campus for recruitment purposes.

There was quite an uproar over it, I remember. Students protested the entire duration of their stay. I was approached several times to join marches on campus grounds in protest, but to tell the truth, I didn't much care or pay attention because none of it interested me in the least. The way I looked at it, government and military intelligence were going to be part of the good old U.S.A. 'til Doomsday, so why waste time and breath getting angry over something that wasn't going to get stopped? Besides, looming finals had me on edge and there was a martial arts exhibition at Veterans' Auditorium that I had to be ready for in a week.

Back when I was a kid, when most girls were giggling over boys or mall-crawling with mothers and girlfriends, I was learning how to fly a Piper plane. When other kids were having sleep-overs, I was camping with my father and he was teaching me survival skills. While everyone else was going to football games and wrestling meets, I was learning how to handle handguns and crossbows and learning martial arts from the masters.

My father had been a pilot in rescue operations during the Korean War and a tour of duty in Viet Nam, so becoming a pilot myself was no surprise to anyone who knew me. I worked my way up to various aircrafts, including helicopters, my training spanning from the time I was eight years old. And I was good. My father instilled in me a sense of pride in my accomplishments, making me realize early on that everything I did in life did not have to be for someone else, that there were some things that I needed to have that were mine, and that I had every right to be proud.

Dad was a rare man. I loved him as a child, idolized him as a teenager and respected him as an adult. When he died of a coronary my sophomore year at college, I was alone in a big old house with a quarter-million dollar life insurance policy to get me through the rest of school and to live on. I invested a few thousand in some blue chips and lived modestly, the way my father would have approved.

Losing Dad so early was a blow that was hard for me to recover from. It was because of him that I'd had an avid interest in the martial arts. He'd trained a little while in Korea and taught me what he knew. When I wanted to learn more, he took me to various dojos and found a reputable one. Soon I was learning Karate and Tai-Kwon-Do. It did a lot for my self-esteem and self-confidence.

Hunting , camping and survival training were also a large chunk of my life. Dad was never a fanatic, but he was keen on me taking care of myself in any given situation. We went camping every opportunity that presented itself, especially after my mother died when I was twelve. Dad taught me to hunt with a bow and arrow -- not a steel crossbow, which I learned how to use later, but a genuine Native-American crafted bow with arrows -- which he helped me construct and string myself. He was always fond of saying that if he stuck me in the middle of the wilderness in nothing but my underwear and a pen-knife, I'd have a lean-to built, campfire going and a rabbit on a spit in under an hour.

Well -- maybe under two-and-a-half.

Maybe the real reason I ended up a covert operative was partly because of the sense of adventure my father instilled in me.

The big surprise during the recruitment at Drake was that I didn't approach the recruiters. The day after a regional martial arts exhibition, two of the recruiters approached me. It had been a good competition. The team I was on bordered on being pro - and we had been the highest ranked in the exhibition with the trophy to prove it.

It was one of those lazy pre-summer days -- you know, the kind where you'd much rather be up at Gray's Lake swimming and soaking in some sun. But high scores on upcoming exams were the order for the day, so I found a nice, quiet spot outside under one of the connecting dorm bridges to study my textbook and notes on Music Appreciation.

I almost didn't notice the two sets of shoes that stood in front of me and when I did, I noticed they were attached to a couple of white suits. The kind that reminded you of South American hitmen.

"Miss . . . Sands? Rachel Sands, is it?" one of the two men asked.

"Yes," I answered, wondering what was going on.

"I'm Ed Kinney," he introduced himself, extending his hand. He was bald and tall and had an amiable enough face. "And this is my associate, Bob Seger. Would you mind talking to us for a few minutes?"

I shook both their hands and indicated the ground before me. "Pull up a piece of terra firma, gentlemen."

Bob struck me as being either Greek or Italian. He was darker-skinned, black hair and lots of it and a thick moustache. He was also more compact and about a foot shorter than the over-six-foot-tall Mr. Kinney.

They settled cross-legged on the ground. Fellow students flung out a few nasty remarks as they passed by and recognized them, but the men shrugged it off, apparently used to such verbal assaults.

"You'll have to make this short, guys, because I've got a big exam tomorrow that I absolutely have to pass," I told them evenly.

"Of course. We understand," Seger replied, bobbing his head up and down.

"The fact is, Ms. Sands . . ."

"You might as well call me Rachel since you know my name anyway."

There was a slight pause, then Kinney continued. ". . . . Rachel. To make a long story short, we saw your exhibition yesterday and you were absolutely marvelous. Very impressive."

I looked at him blankly for a moment. I was used to getting compliments on my martial arts form, but this was what was so all-fired important that they had to break in on my study time?

"Thanks," I replied, half-turning my attention back to my textbook. "It was a team effort."

"Ah. Then you believe in team effort, Ms. Sands?" Seger asked, almost anxious.

"Devoutly." I wondered where this was going. "You can't accomplish squat unless you're a cohesive unit."

"Of course, of course. And your team was the best of the best."

"Regionally."

"Look, Ms. Sands," Mr. Kinney broke in. "Let's get straight to the point. We're very interested in recruiting you into the government."

I smiled and shook my head. "Not interested, gentlemen. Sorry."

"Well . . . maybe you would be after talking to the government man who is very interested in your talents," he suggested rather strongly. "He's very anxious to meet you. Your exhibition performance yesterday caught his attention, and there aren't very many people who do that successfully."

"Still don't think I'm interested," I answered again. "I'm a music major. I'm going to be teaching kids for the rest of my life."

"When you could aspire to much more?" Seger queried, a little intensely. He was making me uncomfortable, this man with beady little black eyes. "Between your near-expertise in Karate and Tae-Kwon-Do, your capabilities as a pilot, not to mention the rest of your background, you could really go places in The Company."

I stared at them. "How . . . ? Never mind. It would be stupid to ask how you know so much about me."

They both smiled at that.

Kinney leaned forward. "The man interested in your abilities chooses only the cream of the crop, Ms. Sands. Ad if he likes you well enough to induct you into his trainee program, I can guarantee you this much -- a very nice salary with its share of perks and benefits. Benefits most people only dream about. Full insurance coverage, paid training, national and international travel, relocation expense account -- and that's just a few. Of course, a security check into your background is mandatory, but that's practically all been done already."

"So you guys already knew just about all there was to know about me when you approached me here," I said, not even surprised.

"When the boss sees what he wants, he checks into it immediately," Seger replied, smiling an oily smile. "There's no problem with a background check on you, but we have to put it all down on paper, you know."

"Gives the paper-pushers something to do, huh?" I didn't know whether to be amused or irritated. I chewed on my lip a moment. "Look, I'm good at the things I do, but I'm no epitome of perfection, even in the things I love doing. I know enough to take care of myself and my daddy didn't raise a fool. But I can't imagine I have the qualifications that you're looking for."

"All this and modesty too," Kinney said, winking. "I think you're exactly what Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs is looking for."

Whoa. Coldsmith-Briggs. That was quite a mouthful. I had a tendency to think that people with hyphenated names came under the category of uppercrust aristocracy of the New England persuasion. I also had to admit a certain grudging curiosity about a man with a name like that.

"C'mon, what can one meeting hurt?" Kinney cajoled. "You can always say no. It's not like anything is going to be forced on you. Who knows? You might even thank us a few years down the line for urging you in this direction." I gave him a skeptical look. Kinney spread his hands and shrugged with a smile. "Hey, it could happen."

I actually thought about it. For a moment, I looked down at my notes and my textbooks and then looked up at the clear blue May afternoon sky.

//What the hell?// I thought.

"All right," I said, wondering if I was going to regret this. "All right. I'll talk to him."

"Good!" Seger approved. "Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs will send a limousine around for you at your home about seven-fifteen. He wanted to know if you like French, Greek or Italian."

"Yes," I answered, wondering if these guys got a commission on the number of recruits they nabbed in a day's time. "French," I decided, when they laughed.

Kinney nodded. "French it is. Nothing ultra-formal. Elegantly casual should do it." He turned to his partner. "Well, Bob, we better get back to the booth before it gets torn down."

"If it hasn't been already," Seger said. "Nice talking to you, Rachel. Hope this'll be the beginning of an exciting career for you."

I watched as they rose and disappeared up the hill. This had been totally unreal. They were so confident I was going to say yes to this mysterious Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs The Third.

At the time, I couldn't imagine that this would be anything other than a curious diversion.

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

It felt good to be home, but there wasn't time to enjoy it much -- just enough to indulge in a Fresca before showering. Then, I changed my mind. Having dinner with a highly-placed government CIA man rated a luxurious bath. So I took one, loving every steamy moment. That early evening, I perused the left side of my closet -- the side that held my "special" clothes reserved to either make an impression or assist in a seduction. I had absolutely no idea which I'd be making tonight.

Or if I'd be making both.

Black was elegant anytime. You could never go wrong with wearing it. I decided on a black sheathe with a slit on the right side. It was silk and clung to the body like a gossamer skin. I'd always had to watch my hips because that was the first place I put weight on, and I could tell, even in this. Fortunately, next-to-no appetite during the week of final exams kept the saddlebags off -- one-hundred and seven pounds with a 5'2 frame that was small, not delicate. I inherited my father's black hair and my mother's blue eyes, the best blend of Irish, Cherokee and French blood. I favored my black pearl necklace and earrings to set off the dress -- three strands of black pearls my mother had willed to me with matching pearl droplets and a pearl ring accented with gold. They'd been a present from my father to my mother when he came home from Viet Nam. On a more formal occasion, I would have had my hair swept up in a coiffure, but elegantly casual allowed me to leave it down. I was dressing up a bit more than he had indicated was necessary anyway, but I liked having an excuse. Besides, this Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs intrigued me. Somehow, I couldn't help but think that perhaps the way I dressed tonight was some sort of test.

"Well, Daddy, am I doing the right thing?" I asked a portrait of my father over the mantel.

If he were there, I knew what he'd say -- that it never hurt to see what something was about. I'd just picked up my beaded purse when I saw a white limo pull up to the curb. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was seven-fifteen on the nose. I'd bet anything that punctuality was Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs middle name. I watched with curiosity as a very lovely redhead with bouncy curls and freckles, attired in a white chauffeur's uniform, exited from the driver's side of the car and came quickly up the steps. She couldn't have been much older than I was. I let her knock on the door before I answered it.

She smiled brightly when I opened the door. "Ms. Sands?" she queried in a surprisingly smooth alto.

I smiled back. "Yes."

"My name is Ricki. I'll be your driver to the Marriott Hotel. You'll be meeting Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs there at Quinelle's."

Wow. Only the most expensive French restaurant in town.

I followed her down to the limo where she opened the door for me and I climbed inside the roomy interior. Fully equipped with a bar, radio, cassette deck and TV. The window that separated the driver from the passenger came down with an electronic buzz.

"Feel free to help yourself to the bar, Ms. Sands," Ricki told me. "Or there's Perrier in the bottom on the left," she indicated.

Although the ride wouldn't take more than about twelve minutes tops, dependent upon traffic, I went ahead and had a Perrier. I didn't want to drink liquor on an empty stomach.

It was kind of cool riding in a limousine and watching the curious stares as we went by campus and on to the freeway, knowing that I couldn't be seen behind the smoky glass. We pulled up to the Marriott, steel and concrete many stories high, stark luxury that was imposing as it stared down on the city street. It was just beginning to get dark when the doorman at the entrance opened my door politely.

I'd been here before, once, when a friend of mine graduated and held a party in the banquet room. Quinelle's was to the left and around the corner, dimly-lighted for mystery and romance.

"Reservation, Miss?" asked the maitre'd as I approached.

"Uhm, no. I'm meeting a gentleman here. A Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs."

"Ah, yes! If you'll follow me, please."

I followed him to the central dining area with subdued lighting. There was a piano on a raised dias, off to the right, that was being played. I heard the familiar strains of 'Always' as I was led to a table directly across from the small stage. The moment I laid eyes on him, I was captivated. He was easily one of the most handsome men I'd ever seen.

His hair was a light brown to ash blond with silver highlights, conservatively cut but softly curling about his ears and barely brushing his collar. His face showed both nobility and strong bloodlines -- I guessed English with more than a hint of Roman ancestry. The deep lines didn't detract, but rather enhanced his face and I guessed his age to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty. His suit was impeccably tailored, perhaps Armani, and it flattered his tall frame when he rose at my approach. I congratulated myself on my wardrobe choice when I saw the glimmer in his eye.

"Ms. Sands," he acknowledged, extending his hand to take mine. Instead of a handshake, he brought my hand to his lips and they lingered on my knuckles more than a moment. I couldn't help the instantaneous attraction I felt.

"Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs," I returned quietly, allowing him to seat me.

"Thank you for accepting my invitation to dinner," he said, seating himself across from me once more. "Would you care for a cocktail?"

"Thank you, yes. A scotch , straight up, please," I asked of the waiter who immediately was at my elbow.

"Would you care to see a menu, Miss?"

"Yes, thank you."

We were left alone and I felt as though I was being assessed. My eyes met his and I found them to be startlingly warm and dark.

"You look astonishingly lovely," he complimented me, leaning back and running a finger over his moustache.

I blushed all the way down to my toes. "Thank you. When Mr. Kinney said a government man was wanting to talk to me . . . well, you aren't exactly what I expected."

He chuckled. "And what were you expecting?"

"Someone much less elegant and . . . um . . . charming."

"Charming? You've just met me, Ms. Sands."

"I pride myself on sizing a person up at first glance."

"Do you? What if your assessment of me turns out to be wrong? Perhaps I'm a stuffy extreme right-winger with anal retentive tendencies."

I laughed a little loudly. "You probably would like people to believe that. I will make an observation."

He raised an eyebrow, leaning back and smiling as he took a sip of his own scotch. "Observe away."

"You don't like taking 'no' for an answer."

He was silent for a few moments, then set his tumbler back down. "Very astute. You're right about that."

"Here you are, Miss." The waiter returned with a menu and my tumbler. "I'll return when the young lady has had a chance to look at the menu," he told my dinner companion courteously.

"Thank you," he said. "The beef bourginon is superb. I highly recommend it," he informed me helpfully.

I looked over the pages quickly. Mine did not have the prices on the menu items. "I'll take that under advisement." After a moment, I laid my menu down and took a sip of my scotch. Ah, heaven. "You seem to be more familiar with the cuisine here than I am," I told him. "So I guess I'll trust you to order for the both of us."

"I'd be delighted to." He motioned our waiter over and ordered in flawless French. I knew enough to know what he'd ordered -- a Morel mushroom pate with toasted french bread for an opener, watercress soup, endive salad, beef bourginone, a bottle of Merlot. If he was trying to impress me, he was succeeding in spades, but I wasn't about to let him know that. At least not yet.

"Mr. Kinney told me that getting you to come see me was like pulling teeth," Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs told me, taking another drink of his scotch. "What changed your mind?"

"Well, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs . . ."

"Please, call me Michael."

I paused, then smiled. "All right . . . Michael." I let my voice caress the name. Small smiles passed between us, as if we shared a secret. "To tell you the truth -- Mr. Kinney and Mr. Seger painted such a wonderful picture of what I could accomplish under your guiding hand, I thought I'd at least like to meet you. Although I was hardly expecting such an expensive dinner meeting." He smiled more deeply. "And . . ." I paused.

His eyes met mine again. "Go on."

"Your name was intriguing I had to come see what type of man had a name like Coldsmith-Briggs. Actually, that was really the initial reason I did come tonight."

"So your curiosity is sated, then, is it?" The question was mild, but I could see the laughter behind his eyes.

"Not completely. I don't imagine it ever would be. You like to cloak yourself in mystery, don't you?"

He quirked his mouth. "I'm a private person, Ms. Sands. From what I understand, you are, too. I note that on the rare occasions you do appear socially, it's usually opera, ballet or symphony. That's quite a contrast to martial arts, aeronautics and survivalist getaways. Although it does explain your intensive musical background. But otherwise, you've pretty much kept to yourself since your father's death. Not much dating or social interaction to speak of."

Trust the man to be knowledgeable about me as Kinney and Seger were. Maybe even moreso.

"Touche," I acknowledged.

He leaned in a little, a bit less aloof than before, and his voice lowered. "May I ask why, Ms. Sands?"

"Why don't I date? Why don't I socialize more?" I shrugged. "I don't know. It . . . just doesn't seem important." I lowered my eyes. "I . . . I'm studying. To be a music teacher. I'm very good at it."

"Yes, you are. Your grades speak for themselves. All your professors speak very highly of you."

I looked up, startled. "You've talked to my professors?"

"I've accessed their assessments of your performance and classroom. You have top marks. You could go anywhere in the country for your Master's and then on to a Doctorate."

"Maybe later. There's time enough for that."

"Anxious to get your feet wet in the teaching field, hm?"

"Girl's got to make a living, Mr. -- Michael."

"Yes. I understand that." He shifted. "You're plying an honest trade with teaching, Ms. Sands. I don't deny that. Where would we be without competent -- and sometimes brilliant -- instructors? I applaud your chosen field and I'm not here to dissuade you from it, if that is absolutely what you want to do. I am simply here to offer you an opportunity to come work for me."

"As a covert operative."

"As an operative trainee. You're a fast learner. I expect that you'll have total operative status in two or three years if you decide to accept my offer."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. But I'd be less than honest if I didn't tell you that once in awhile, when I send you out on a mission, that it will be dangerous. The chance of losing your life is always there. That's the field we're in."

"Real James Bond stuff."

He shook his head. "Hardly. Ninety percent of your job is going to be research or gofering for me. I have a pool of operatives, Ms. Sands . . . "

"Call me Rachel," I interrupted, suddenly very curious about what this job would entail.

He quirked the corner of his mouth again. "Rachel." My name slid over his tongue as smoothly as his had mine. "As I was saying. I have a pool of operatives. They are expected to perform multiple tasks, so they are practically interchangeable. There are a select few who work for me in specific capacities. I do monitor very carefully where each individual's strengths and weaknesses lie and assign many tasks according to that criteria, but I also encourage becoming proficient in other areas you might not have thought of, or which you are weak in and might personally want to improve upon. One thing that I must insist upon is that all my operatives are certified pilots. You've met that qualification and then some." He paused, draining his tumbler. "There is one other thing that I insist upon, not only because of the classified nature of the job, but it's simply something I must have. That is loyalty. Betrayal is not tolerated. It is dealt with swiftly and irrevocably."

I found myself swallowing. "That's . . . a given, I guess." Our appetizer came and I politely declined another scotch. I was feeling the effects of the one I just had and knew I better eat something.

Michael continued to tell me about the work, about what to expect, about what he thought I could do. I would have to move to L.A. Despite the fact that Headquarters was in Richmond, Michael's particular base of operations was in Los Angeles where he reigned supreme from the local office most of the time. He had a Firm-owned condo in mind for me. I would have use of a Firm car if I wanted it. My working wardrobe would be purchased by The Firm. My moving expenses would be picked up by The Firm. I would be taught in the downtown Knightsbridge office and it would be like attending classes at school for the most part at first. One year intensive work-study as a CIA operative. Then, if both the Firm and I thought I was ready, field-operative training for another year.

"You'd only be putting off your teaching career for a year, two at the most, if you decide you don't want the job," he was telling me as we sipped on the lovely Merlot. "If you decide this isn't something you want to do, I'll let you walk."

I bit my lip. "What's your turnover rate?"

"Very low -- less than four percent. There are always positions open. Many of my operatives end up in different parts of the world for intelligence-gathering purposes. Change of identity, good placement and if they're good, they stay in those positions. Some of them have gone on to be leading citizens wherever they've ended up. That helps us in the long run, provided no one gets too caught up in their pseudo-lives and remembers where their loyalties lie."

Wow. This was sounding pretty good.

"And after a year - or two, if I don't like it -- you'll just let me walk away. No strings."

"None whatsoever."

"What if I spill some state secrets?"

Michael smiled at that. "My dear, it will be well into your second or third year before we entrust anything of that nature to you. And even if you should have such knowledge, we offer a generous parting gift as an incentive to keep your lovely mouth shut. If that fails to do the trick . . . there are other incentives that have proven to be most useful in the procurement of silence."

It was a pretty good bet I didn't want to know what those 'other' incentives were.

"How many other recruits are there besides me?" I queried, just out of curiosity.

"Twelve. You make thirteen. Those are the current openings open. In two years, there will be another thirteen. More wine, Rachel?"

"No, thank you." I took a sip of water instead. "And this initial orientation session -- it starts when?"

"September the fifth." He fished around inside his jacket pocket, then handed me a business card. "This has my personal number on it, both office and home. My penthouse number is on there, too. If you leave a message at any of those three numbers, I will receive it. You have the summer, Rachel. Call me when you decide -- and let me know either way."

I took the card from his hand and our fingertips touched briefly. It was as though an electric current went through me and I busily slipped it inside my handbag, keeping my eyes lowered.

"I'll do that." There was a few moments of silence. When he touched my hand with his fingertips again, my eyes shot up to grip his.

"I sincerely hope you'll accept my offer. I have a strong feeling that you'll be a superb operative."

My eyes riveted on his long, beautiful fingers as they caressed the back of my hand. He was sending sparks all through me. Did he know it? When he gripped my gaze, I thought there was a dark sparkle in those unfathomable eyes of his, and at that moment, I was almost breathless. I'd already resigned myself to the fact I was almost animalistically attracted to him. I also knew there was no way I wanted the evening to end just yet, although seducing your potential boss was not exactly something that should have been included on my agenda, either.

"Dessert?" He queried softly, taking his hand away.

//Yeah. You.//

It would have been a good way to prolong things, but I couldn't eat another bite. "Not for me, thank you."

"Perhaps you'd like to join me in the bar for after-dinner drinks, then?"

The gods were smiling. "I would love to," I answered, extremely pleased.

Michael had a way of coaxing you to talk about yourself even when you didn't have any intention of doing so. There was a certain way he asked questions, the attentive way he listened, like you were the singular, most important person in his world right at that moment. Or maybe that hopeful perception sprang out of lust on my part, I don't know. This was only one of the initial facts I discovered about the man. There was never one time in his presence where I didn't feel respected and valued as an equal, even the times when he pissed me off so badly I couldn't see straight. I found out later that this was no accident. This was simply the way Michael was. He treated all women with this respect. It was one of the many reasons why women found him so attractive.

And one of the may reasons why I found him irresistible.

He had a charming knack of making you feel comfortable. I found myself loosening up and telling him some things I never though I'd tell anyone -- what my parents' deaths had done to me, how alone and frightened I felt sometimes. I told him about my Cherokee heritage and my forays into the local indian reservations with my father with clothes, toys and food -- donations to be distributed by the tribal council to their people. He was fascinated with the way of life and asked numerous questions. Likewise, when he recounted a few of his adventures in his earlier years, during the Cold War, it was hard not to hang in breathless anticipation on every word that came out of his mouth. He was an amazing man. I wondered how many other women he'd related these stories to during his 'business meetings' with new recruits, and then decided I didn't care.

It was well after midnight when we rather reluctantly decided to call it a night. He called the limo around and we waited for it on the street.

"I had a wonderful time," I told him sincerely. "Thank you for dinner."

"Believe me, the pleasure was definitely mine." His arm went lightly around my shoulders, but the hold was secure. A flush overtook me and I could feel a tingle creep up my back and a flush up into my cheeks. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."

"It's too bad it has to end." I almost flinched when I said it. If that wasn't a broad-based hint, nothing was.

"It wouldn't be, if I didn't have to catch a plane tomorrow morning and you didn't have finals to take."

His comment brought me up short, and I wondered if he was being sincere or just yanking my chain. I didn't have the guts to look him in the face at that moment to find out.

"Well," I said slowly, "if you ever find yourself out this way between now and September, look me up, I know you know where I live."

He chuckled and I finally did look up at him. He was almost dazzling to look at. "I'll take that invitation to heart," he promised, and at that moment, I didn't care if he was being sincere or not.

The limo came up to the curb and the little redhead from earlier got out to open my door. Before I climbed in, Michael caught my hand. I stopped short and took a deep, quick breath. He was standing so close we were almost touching, and his presence overwhelmed me.

"Rachel . . . I'm very serious about wanting you for an operative in my department. Please, think it all over very carefully," he told me in a quiet, powerful voice. "Don't just write this off as a lovely evening -- and it was that. Will you promise me to think seriously on this?"

My perceptions remarkably acute due to my undeniable attraction for him, I was too aware at how he clasped my hand warmly to his chest in both of his, at how I was so close to this man I could feel his body heat and was being enveloped by the strong aura that emanated from and surrounded him.

"I promise," I told him, eyes never leaving his. "I will give your offer very careful consideration."

"Thank you." He kissed my knuckles for the second time that night, taking his time, moustache tickling my skin, eyes burning into mine. After an eternal moment, he let my hand go. "Good luck on your finals."

I smiled, regaining some of my cockiness. "Luck has nothing to do with it. But thank you."

He watched as the limo pulled away from the curb, staying there in silent vigil until we were almost out of sight. I turned, glad he couldn't see me looking out the rear windshield at him as I blew him a kiss and giggled like a schoolgirl. My very interesting and pleasant evening had my brain going in new directions.

The question was, was I brave enough to leave everything I knew and was sure of for a life uncertain, but exciting?

I think I already knew what my answer was before we even arrived back at my house.

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

My finals were aced. I was sought after by several local junior high and high schools and even Julliard, pending my final exam grades, was interested in me as an assistant instructor. I could have set to work in my chosen field of music that very Fall, whether I stayed in Des Moines or moved out of state. Now it was almost the end of June. I knew what I wanted to do.

I wanted to call that foxy Michael Coldsmith-Briggs the Third and tell him I accepted his job offer.

I'd had the house appraised and put up on the market immediately after finals. By the Fourth of July, I had several bites, two of which were good offers. But it bothered me to put the house up for sale. I grew up in it, it was a part of me. I had some wonderful memories. But, I knew, this phase of my life was closing behind me. If I stayed in Des Moines with a safe job, in familiar surroundings, would I ever really know what it was truly like to be on my own? To have what could be mine if I had the guts to reach out for it and grab it?

It was this final impetus that drove me to complete the deal.

That Fourth of July night, I went down town to the Des Moines River by the huge complex of theaters and Veterans' Auditorium and spread my blanket on the bank with a small cooler of lemonade, watching the fireworks over the Arboretum. The splashes of color against the velvet night sky was beautiful. I don't know if it was this or the knowledge I wouldn't probably be back for a long time or because I sold my childhood home or a deep burst of patriotism -- maybe all of the above -- but my heart beat in my chest and I had the overwhelming urge to cry. I was in the midst of stemming my rampant emotions when it happened.

The presence was as distinct to me as a criminal face would be to a knowledgeable officer of the law. A flash of insight was working for me and somehow, I just knew who was standing right behind me and a bit to my left.

"Hello, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs." I looked around to see him standing precisely where I'd felt.

There might have been a subtle flash of startlement in his face, but if there was, he masked it immediately. "Hello, Ms. Sands." The one-of-a-kind voice sent shivers all through me. "May I share your blanket?"

"Be my guest."

Did the man ever wear anything but white? I wondered, as he sat down next to me, all my gut-wrenching thoughts quelled for the moment as he seated himself beside me. He was much more casually attired than when I last saw him, wearing a white cotton-knit, short-sleeved shirt and white cotton slacks. But it didn't shake his air of authority. I reached into my cooler and handed him an ice-cold Country Time. It was ungodly hot and humid, even at night, and I was sure he could use one.

"So what did you do? Have someone following me?" I asked with a wry smile.

"Actually, you had just disappeared around the corner of the block when I pulled up at your house," the agent said goodnaturedly. "So I had my driver follow." He paused. "Noticed the real estate sign in front. I believe it said 'Sold.'"

"I accepted an offer just today." I tried to make my voice neutral. "I got an invitation to teach from Julliard mid-June."

"Really? Quite a coup. But then your grades and your performances were remarkable."

"Talked to my profs again, huh?"

"I was in the audience when you did your performance finals."

I stared at him. "You were?" He nodded and his profile was highlighted when a burst of color filled the sky. "I thought you had a plane to catch the next morning after our dinner?"

"I did. I decided to stay."

"But my performance finals were spread out over the next week! You were here all that time?"

"Yes. You're very good, Rachel." I was relieved he was lapsing into familiarity. "I found your performances most impressive, especially voice. It would have been my recommendation for you to try out at least for the local opera here."

I was blushing all over. "You're just trying to get me to come work for you, feeding me all these compliments."

"Yes. But I'm also being honest." He pulled the tab on the can and drank deeply. "So when do you leave for Julliard?"

I was quiet for a long moment. "I didn't say," I said softly, "that I accepted their offer of employment." Neither one of us said a word for a moment. Then, I had to ask. "Why did you come back here?"

"It's not unusual for me to check up on potential investments," he replied.

"Yeah? Who else did you check up on?"

He smiled but didn't answer. The fireworks were petering out and people were already getting up to leave.

"Is there somewhere close where we could pick up a bite?" he asked. "I haven't eaten all day and I'm starving."

"There's a little deli about three blocks down, open until midnight," I answered.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Italian."

"Well, we've got two choices. There's the Spaghetti Factory -- which got closed down by the Health Department three times since last February. Or there's Nicky's Place, run by one of the Des Moines Mafia boys. You haven't lived until you've tried Italian there. And I think they're the only two Italian restaurants open on the Fourth of July."

"Nicky's it is, then." He got to his feet and helped me up, then folded up the blanket for me as I grabbed the cooler. "My limo will follow, if you don't mind driving the two of us?"

"Not a bit."

We put my items in the trunk of my big boat of a Pontiac Phoenix and proceeded into the heart of downtown. Nicky's was a favorite of both student and professor. The Italian food was the best in town and the place was always packed during the lunch and supper hours. Unless you had a reservation, no way could you get in. But it was getting close to ten o'clock, so getting a seat wouldn't be difficult.

There were some die-hard patrons lingering over late supper even at that hour. The hostess seated us in a dimly-lit booth, away from the kitchen. Michael deferred to me this time as far as ordering. I figured on footing the bill since we were in my territory now, and I could afford the occasional ulra-expensive dinner. So, I went for broke. I ordered Italian-stuffed mushrooms for the appetizer, green salad with caviar and smoked salmon, fettucini with red clam sauce for both of us, a nice loaf of the baked Italian bread and oil to go with it and a wedge of Italian goat cheese. I let Michael choose the wine and again, his choice was impeccable. A Pinot Noir, 1976. It was champagne, but as any true wine and champagne lover will tell you, champagne goes with anything, even red meat.

"So tell me Ms. Sands. Am I to understand that you are, indeed, coming to work for me?" I was sipping on a Virgin Mary and Michael had, surprisingly, ordered an iced tea before dinner.

"Well . . . I'm debating." No I wasn't, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I loved flirting with this man.

"About . . . ?"

"Well, I'll be honest, Michael. Julliard made me a lovely proposal. Frankly, I'm torn."

"And what would tip the scales in my favor, Ms. Sands?"

"Rachel, please," I corrected gently. He was still interested. Why, I couldn't imagine. I was probably pushing my luck with Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, but whatever I had, he wanted. Enough to check up on me six weeks after initial contact. Our appetizers came and we munched on the slick-skinned mushrooms. "Let me get back to you on that." My eyes met his for a long moment. "But answer me something, first."

"If I can." He licked a finger. I watched his tongue a long moment before I jerked back to reality.

"What do you see my future as being with you in The Firm? After training, are you planning to groom me for something in specific?"

"I'll have to see how your training comes and where your strengths lie," he answered diplomatically. "That's not a determination I can readily make."

"You must have had some idea about placement when you zeroed in on me." I took a drink of my tomato juice. "I want to know what you thought when you first looked at me in that exhibition. The first adjective that came to your mind."

He contemplated me for a moment. "The first adjective. That's a hard one. There were so many." After a moment, he leaned back. The very first adjective. I would say . . . self-assured. Of course that was after I determined how lovely a young woman you are."

I smiled faintly. "So if I'd been unattractive -- or merely average-looking -- you wouldn't have given me a second glance."

"Not necessarily. Every woman has a particular beauty that stands out. It doesn't always fall in the category of outward appearance. In your case, it did. I rated you as attractive when I first saw you and I won't lie. You did catch my eye. When I saw you later at the restaurant, I almost didn't recognize you. You went from attractive to absolutely stunning." He smiled. "All this and brains, talent and poise, too."

"But why me?" I really wanted to know.

He contemplated me for a few more moments. "Let me tell you something Ms . . . Rachel." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "I work for a branch of the CIA that is involved with espionage and sabotage. We deal in stealing secrets from other countries. We poke our noses into the business of other countries, if we deem it necessary to the integrity and the safeguarding of this country. We don't always do everything right, but in my division, we try to. This is why I hand-pick my operatives. The turnover in my entire division is less than four percent, as I've told you before. We treat our employees very well, compensate them well, train them well. But you will find I'm not an easy boss and I can be a bear to get along with. There will be times when you think I'm not even paying attention to your progress, but when you start thinking that, that's exactly when I am taking the most notice."

Our salads came. Michael began on his with a hearty appetite, but I sat back, waiting for him to continue.

"I think your talents may lie in becoming a full-fledged field operative," he went on. "In time, I think you may have both the brains and talent to head up your own covert ops team. To be a division leader. I'd like to see what you can pull off both solo and with group covert ops endeavors. But you need a lot of training and a lot of patience. You have to be quick. We follow procedure, but there will be times when you have to throw the procedure book out the window and play it by ear. It happens more than you think."

"Explain to me more about the training period. It sounds like . . . I don't know. Cadet school or something."

"In a sense it is. You'll be educated half time, working half time. Working at various things. I pool most of my operatives in training and my junior operatives together. They perform the basic functions of my office, which is a lot of research and paperwork. Frequently, I'll pull a certain junior operative or trainee out for different things. It may be for something as simple as filling in for my secretary when she's out sick or on vacation or driving me around all day. You could be flying half-way across the world to be my gofer and girl Friday one day or sitting in front of a word processor for the next two months. I might pull you out of the pool to report to the penthouse to go over my daily correspondence and memos and reports to proof them to make sure they make sense. Or -- I may ask you to accompany me to dinner and the ballet, opera or theater."

"Like a date."

"As an escort."

I gave him a guarded look. "Escort?"

"Not that kind of escort, Rachel." He smiled slightly.

I couldn't resist. "Pity."

He stopped chewing, eyes glinting in humor. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that nice girls don't tease?"

"You're making two assumptions that aren't necessarily facts."

"Am I? And they are . . . ?"

I finally began on my salad. "That I'm a nice girl." I took a bite of greens, chewing thoroughly. "And that I'm teasing."

His lip curled. "You're trying to seduce me."

"Am I succeeding?"

Lord, what was I doing? Who the hell did I think I was? My smart mouth could get me into a world of trouble, especially with this man.

"I do hope you're not basing your decision to come work for me solely on sexual attraction." Geez. Something I quickly found out about Michael. He always called a spade a spade. I think he saw how deep my blush was going. "Not that I'm not flattered," he amended in a softer tone, eyes lingering on mine, "not to mention tempted."

My face got that much hotter. For some reason, I felt as though an apology was in order. This incredibly good-looking, charming, intelligent man was humoring me. Humoring me! I didn't know if I should have felt ashamed or offended. One thing was sure -- I had no idea what the hell I was doing. A blanket of confusion was threatening to come down around me and I almost panicked then and there.

Michael is a master at reading people. He was reading me at that precise moment and I could see the concern in his face. I must have looked like a rabbit about to bolt. And then I wondered why the concern should be evident in his face to begin with.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, bringing my napkin up to my hot cheeks. "Being a smart-aleck is a bad habit of mine. If I've offended you . . ."

"You didn't offend me, Rachel. You didn't even come close." Before I knew it, his hand was over mine and mine was shaking. "Relax, angel," he directed quietly. "Having you . . . desire me . . . is very gratifying. I'm not unaffected by your considerable charms, either." He stroked my hand soothingly.

I heard the 'but' hanging in the air, and we both knew what that meant. It meant that if we were going to work together, that if he were going to be my boss, that even a one-night stand was best left a fantasy. I read Dear Abby. I knew where office romances could lead to.

The rest of the meal was brought out. Michael narrated tidbits about the work -- of some of his own missions, some hair-raising as hell. I was fascinated with his description of foreign countries, even those as close as the United Kingdom. He'd been everywhere, done just about everything, met and came to know so many people. My face must have shown with rapt attention.

"Your eyes are sparkling," he suddenly observed in the middle of a story, his sexy mouth curving into an amused smile.

I blushed for the umpteenth time and looked down. "Must be the wine."

"I think it's the excitement. You really like my stories, don't you?"

"I love your stories. I could listen to you for hours."

"Well, I won't promise to constantly regale you with my adventures, but it so happens I have no obligations for the couple of days. How would you like to entertain me during that time?"

I was surprised a little at the proposal. We weren't exactly best buds. But it was a great excuse to spend more time in the company of a man who was so ungodly irresistible. It would be incredibly stupid to decline.

"Sure. What would you like to do?"

"We've been sitting here for how long and you need to ask me that?"

I was caught up short and frowned.

"Think for a minute. Consider this a training lesson. Think about what all we've talked about."

My mind flew back to our conversation. What did I know about Michael Coldsmith-Briggs The Third? He was a scotch-drinker. He knew wines. He liked Italian and French food. He stayed in top-knotch hotels and was used to a lavish lifestyle. But his stories had painted pictures, too. He was used to simpler things -- and at times, absolutely horrible conditions.

I remembered the story he'd recounted about the simple life he'd sampled in Ireland when he was tracking down an IRA terrorist. He talked about his enjoyment of the people -- how the best way to become an Irishman's friend was over a brew at the local pub, and that much I could vouch for having come from an Irish background myself. He had talked about the simple cottage he'd stayed in, cutting blocks of peat for the fire, doing without the luxury of an indoor bathroom for weeks at a time. He'd walked among ancient foundations of fortresses long fallen, had loved the Irish people for their warmth and friendliness.

There were even darker things he'd talked of. Tracking down and shooting a rogue operative in East Germany. Ordering the destruction of a series of Iranian chemical factories in which he knew innocent people would die. He didn't spare me the harshness of the job. Nor did he justify his actions or apologize for them. It was what he did, pure and simple.

"Well -- you mentioned theater. Do you like dinner theater?" I queried.

"If it's good."

"I'll see what's playing at the Ingersoll, then. Do you like to swim?"

"I was on the swim team in college."

"Great! We'll pack a lunch and bring swimsuits and go to Gray's Lake."

"Sounds wonderful. Shall I pick you up?"

"Nope, I'll come for you -- about ten o'clock. Bring sunscreen. There's no place to change, so wear your swimsuit under something."

"I'm staying at the Marriott again. Why don't you bring your evening clothes with you for tomorrow night. You can shower and change in my suite," he offered. "That way, we can spend most of the day at the Lake and not worry about how we're going to hook up later. I can give my driver a day off if you don't mind being chauffeur."

"OK. Sounds like a plan."

"I'm looking forward to this."

"So'm I."

The rest of our dinner was unhurried and we talked about less deep things. When we left the restaurant, Michael wouldn't hear of me picking up the tab. We walked outside in the humid air. His limo was right outside the door.

"I want you to let me take care of tomorrow," I told him resolutely. "This is twice you've treated me. Since you're letting me give you a tour of my turf, I insist on the privilege."

He acknowledged my request with a polite nod. "All right, Rachel. Since you insist so vehemently. Just know that I enjoy being old-fashioned most of the time. I like taking care of my ladies, especially the ones I socialize with."

"I'll remember that. But tomorrow is my pleasure."

"I'll see you around ten, then. Wait for you in the lobby?"

"That would be great."

"Well. Goodnight, then." He leaned over and for one wild moment, I thought I was going to find out what it would be like to be kissed by such a man. Well -- I did find out, sort of. He placed one firm hand on my waist, bypassed my lips and gave me a warm, unhurried kiss on my cheek. His musky cologne wreathed me for those few moments. When he leaned back, his fingertips briefly touched my chin. Then, he opened the door to the limo and got in. This time, I was the one who watched as the car lumbered out of sight, around the corner.

My tongue wetted my lips as I stood there alone. This was going to be an interesting couple of days, I thought.

An opportunity to come to know a very interesting man.

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

The next morning was sunny and beautiful. To make it even moreso, some of the humidity had lifted and the air was very breathable. The cooler front from the north had dipped down low enough and I had renewed energy when I woke up early the next morning to fix our noon repast. I was excited about our 'date.' What girl wouldn't be with a man like Michael? He was easily a good ten to thirteen years older than I was, but he looked remarkably ageless. Damn good genes, I decided.

The lunch I packed for us consisted of leaf lettuce, a mix of bagels, pita and sourdough bread, tomatoes, feta cheese, cucumber slices, sliced cooked chicken, Dijon and butter, a container of cold cucumber soup and hummus. I packed apples and peaches for dessert and cans of iced tea and lemonade. Alcohol was a no-no at the public lake area. Then I made reservations at the dinner theater for seven-thirty. The musical was Man of La Mancha, one of my favorites. I hoped Michael enjoyed it, too.

It was after some debate I slipped on my one-piece black swimsuit. I was going to go for the bikini, but decided not to. I wanted us to have a good time. I didn't want to make things really uncomfortable with showing too much skin in such close proximity so early. Conservative couldn't hurt. I mean, yeah, I wanted the man and he knew that. But I figured if things were going to happen, they'd happen in their own sweet time and maybe, just maybe, whatever happened between the two of us, be it friendship or something more, I'd gain a lot more respect from him if I didn't push things much farther than a verbal flirtation. Let Michael decide what was going to happen. All I knew was I didn't want to deprive myself of his company, that I enjoyed being with him and he seemed to enjoy my company as well. I didn't want him to back off simply because I couldn't keep my hormones in check.

I wore a pair of jeans shorts and a blue cotton shirt buttoned over my suit. Smiling, I loaded up my car, wondering distractedly what Michael's legs looked like and betting they looked as good as the rest of him. I'd almost forgotten to pack up the clothes and toiletries I'd need for later that night and settled on a black silk dress, strapless, with a long, copper-colored jacket, light and three-quarter length. My jewelry of choice was black onyx accented with gold. I made a quick stop to pick up the tickets at the dinner theater, and then it was on to Michael's hotel.

He was already waiting outside when I pulled up. He wore a pair of white cotton walking shorts, a mesh cotton shirt and comfortable loafers. It was different seeing him so casual. He flashed me a smile as he climbed into the passenger's side.

"Good morning," he greeted.

"It's a great one, isn't it?" I agreed. "Looks like you got a good night's sleep despite the late night," I added, matching his smile as he buckled in.

"I slept very well. I was looking forward to today. So let's go to this Gray's Lake."

The lake was south on Fleur Drive and to the left -- a nice, park-like setting with lots of trees and a huge, man-made lake. There was already quite a few people there, but we found ample room to lay down a blanket and stake out a piece of beach.

"It's only twelve feet deep all the way across, I told him. "Sand on the bottom, no rocks."

"I feel like a race," he said suddenly. "You game?"

"You'd probably beat me." I put the towels down on the blanket.

"C'mon. No guts, no glory."

"OK, you're on."

We shed our outer clothes and I pinned my car keys to the inside bodice of my swimsuit. He watched me do it and I pretended I didn't notice him noticing. I held down a sigh when I got a really good look at him. If there was ever a mythological Adonis, I was standing on a lakeshore with him. He cut one mighty fine-looking male figure with next-to-nothing on. He seized my wrist, hurrying me into the water. It was cold on first contact -- seemed freezing but I knew it wasn't. Our race was in earnest. I couldn't keep up with him. Michael cut through the water like a shark, gliding along just as easily. By the time he reached the shore on the return trip back, where we were staked out, he was ahead of me by a good thirty yards. He tumbled on the blanket and I followed about one minute after. We both were breathing hard, lying on our backs, trying to catch our breath.

"Good race," he managed after a moment.

"You beat me all hollow. You're a damn good swimmer, Michael."

"Thank you. You're not so shabby yourself."

"I'm not used to swimming like that. My forte is martial arts, remember?"

"I haven't forgotten. You've got nice form."

"Nice form, or a nice form?" No matter how hard I tried, I just had to push it.

"Both," he answered without missing a beat.

We looked over at each other, side by side. He was smiling like a cheshire cat and I laughed.

"OK, you show-off," I challenged. "You're such the expert swimmer -- I want to see some dives! C'mon! Impress me!"

I watched as he demonstrated a perfect jack-knife off an elevated dock, created at the lake specifically for the purpose of diving. A swan dive followed, then I dared him to do a cannonball. He did one, crash-landing in the water so close I almost received full impact, but I moved in time to avoid getting hit. When he surfaced, I splashed him. He splashed me and a water-fight ensued. It pretty much ended when he dove down and grabbed my ankle, pulling me under the water. I bobbed up, spluttering, to the accompaniment of his laughter.

God, he had a nice laugh.

"You were begging for that!" he charged, laughing heartily.

"You're a dead man!" I shouted, leaping toward him to push him down by the shoulders.

I think he let me think I was strong enough to push him under. He gave as good as he got, yanking me under a second time. But I kept coming back for more. We had to be the liveliest swimmers in the whole lake. We horsed around, playing watertag for the better part of an hour, ending with another race across the lake and back. This time, he finished a good fifty yards ahead of me.

"You're slowing up," he commented when I joined him on the blanket.

I tossed him a towel to dry off. "Guess I'm not in as good a shape as I thought I was."

"Your shape is just fine."

I laughed appreciatively, if somewhat embarrassed by the pointed directive. "I meant my physical condition."

"I was a trophy winner in swimming. You can't expect to be as good as I am, having never concentrated on that particular sport."

"Maybe I need a coach like you to be as good."

"Maybe if you accept my job offer, I might just coach you."

I laughed again. "Bribery."

"Incentive." He toweled off, shaking his hair free of water.

We were quiet for a moment. Finally, I looked over at him. "Why are you spending time with me, Michael? Is it because you like being with me, or is it to induce me to accept your offer of employment? And if it is because of the latter, why? Why are you so hot to have me working for you? There are thousands of women out there like me."

"That's where you're wrong. Every human being is unique. I'm trying to see you as a human being, Rachel. I already know you possess the qualifications I want as far as becoming an operative and I do want you to join my intelligence family. I'm spending time with you because I want to know you a little better. I don't do it often, but when I do it's because I intend to have you working very closely with me in my department in some capacity. I need to know my people in order to put them in such positions. If it makes you feel any better," he continued, "it's not all for the sake of the job. I like you. I enjoy your company."

At the time, I had no idea that Michael didn't like a lot of people, that he merely put up with them. I didn't know just how highly placed I was with that confession.

"Thank you." I paused, finishing toweling my hair. "The feeling's mutual." There was an awkward pause, which gave me the perfect opportunity to ask, "Are you hungry?"

"Famished," he confirmed readily, getting to his feet. "Toss me the keys, I'll get the cooler."

I unpinned the keys from my suit and he disappeared through the treeline to the car. While he was gone and I was contemplating the misty, foggy road of my future, I heard laughter off to the right. Out of the trees came six people I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing.

"Well, hi, Rachel!" Lori Hammond, one of the Phi Mu Alpha girls in my class from school who just graduated and her entourage of friends began to spread their blankets -- right next to ours.

"Lori." My greeting was much less than enthusiastic. I could have been one of the 'in' crowd, one of the high-brow members of the sorority. Technically I was. It looked good on your records to be a Phi Mu Alpha member. In fact, I'd been courted ardently by its members in the beginning as a freshman.

"So what are you doing here all alone?" she asked sweetly, then feigned shock, as if she'd committed the greatest breach of etiquette. "Oh, dear. I forgot. You're always alone, aren't you?"

"I guess we all can't be social butterflies, now, can we?" I asked sardonically, determined to ignore the diatribes.

"At least some of us are butterflies," she returned pointedly.

"Yeah," came Richard Daltrey's voice as he plopped down their cooler. "Some ugly ducklings never get to be swans." He was Lori's boyfriend. He'd been a year older than I was when I pledged the sorority my freshman year.

"Well, Dick," I said in a hard voice, "some horses never get to be studs, either, even if they do possess the right equipment." I paused until I was sure he was looking straight into my eyes. "And some people understand the word 'no' better than others."

Daltrey was all jock, dark good looks and muscular football player -- washboard stomach, bulging biceps and precious little upstairs. He was also a rapist backed by a well-to-do Des Moines family who personally knew the Iowa governor and he hung around with the governor's son. The other two boys in the group, Todd Sheridan and Steve Cosgrove, were jocks, too; they were also his accomplices to his unspoken crimes.

"And most people usually mean 'yes' when they say 'no'," Steve Cosgrove chimed in, plunking down another cooler as his girlfriend, Heather Henry, settled herself prettily on the blanket, in a pose more obviously meant to entice him and any other male who was looking on.

"Yeah, I figured that's the logic you'd use to keep from being brought up on rape charges," I said levelly.

"Now, c'mon, Rach," Richard said placatingly. "We're old history. Are you going to embarrass me in front of Lori? She's forgiven me for my past with you. I don't think you need to rub her nose in it any more. It was fun, but it's over."

"It was fun until you and your buddies raped me and two other girls. Did you really think that was something I'd just forget about?"

Lizanne De Crama, Todd Sheridan's squeeze, rubbed sunscreen on her amazingly pale skin. "She's just jealous, Richard. After all, Lori managed to snag you right out from under her nose. She just can't stand it."

"You don't think I know how you girls set me up? Set those other girls up?" I asked, fury rising. "If you didn't want us in the sorority, all you had to do was blackball us during the final vote! You didn't have to set us up for a gang rape!"

"Whatevah is she talkin' 'bout?" Heather drawled lazily.

"Oh, spare me, you bitch." I wanted to rip her light brown hair out by the roots.

"I don't know where you get these fantasies," Lori sniffed. 'Just because you weren't good enough for the sorority and you don't have a boyfriend . . ."

There was a rather loud thud and then I felt Michael curl up behind me, chest pressing lightly against my back, one hand slipping securely around my waist.

"Is there a problem, sweetheart?" he queried, pushing my hair off my shoulder so he could place a soft kiss there.

"Not yet," I answered in a low voice.

"Oh my -- you aren't alone," Heather said, surprised. "Shouldn't you introduce us to your father, Rachel?"

Now that one hurt. "You know damn well my father is dead."

"I'm Michael." The words startled me, they were spoken so close to my ear. I could feel his grip tighten around me, his fingers caressing my wet hair. "I'm an old friend of the family. Rachel and I go . . . way back." I felt his lips just below my ear and despite the unpleasant situation, my body was reacting violently to his closeness.

"You've been holding out on us, Rachel," Lori said smoothly. Her eyes were assessing us -- him, I corrected myself -- and I could see her discomfort. "I'm Lori Hammond, Michael."

"Mm." Michael 's hand splayed over my waist and he nuzzled my ear. "Matthew Earle Hammond is your father. Steel industry?"

Surprised, she stared at him. "Why . . . yes. I didn't catch your last name?"

"I didn't give it to you." He caressed my shoulder with his hand. "Ordinarily, I'd say it was a pleasure. But I can see Rachel is a little upset."

"Oh, it's just an old rivalry," Lori passed off easily. "No hard feelings, right, Rach?"

I couldn't believe the gall of this girl, but I was damned if I was going to disintegrate into an emotional mess. I remained silent.

Richard hesitated, then extended his hand to Michael. "Richard Daltry," he introduced himself. I was surprised when Michael took it.

"Michael Coldsmith-Briggs The Third," my partner finally countered, gripping the younger man's hand. It was almost as if a challenge passed between them. Richard withdrew his hand first and I was mildly gratified to see him shake it. "Coldsmith-Briggs," he repeated. "I know that name . . ."

"You must be Senator Daltrey's son," Michael surmised.

//Yes,// I thought. //Which is precisely why he got away with raping me.//

"Yeah," Richard confirmed. "Bob Daltrey's my dad."

"My grandfather knew your father early in his career," Michael continued, never ceasing to stroke my skin or nuzzle my shoulder.

"Coldsmith-Briggs . . . the Coldsmith-Briggs' of Virginia?" Richard finally tumbled, mouth agape, as Michael nodded in affirmation. "Oh, m'god!"

"What?" Lori queried, frowning. "Richard, who is this guy?"

"His family is only one of the oldest in Virginia," Richard said, sounding surprisingly intelligent for a dumb jock. "I mean . . . like . . . they came over on the Santa Maria and started one of the first settlements . . . "

"Actually, " Michael broke in, "my family came over on the Fleetwood about the late fifteen hundreds and started a tobacco and indigo plantation."

"They, like, spend a lot of time with people like the Kennedys . . ."

Michael chuckled. "Not quite. We're friends of the Rockefellers and Kissingers."

" . . . and they have more money than God."

"Now that much you're right about." Michael shifted a little. "Rachel, honey, I saw a pretty little secluded piece of beach down on the other end. It's a little crowded here. What say we move?"

"I'd say you're my knight in shining armor," I answered, relieved.

"Oh -- don't leave on our account!" Lizanne said, eyeing Michael interestedly. "We've just barely gotten to know you!"

"I'm sure we'll cross paths again." Michael rose and so did I. The tone in Michael's voice almost made me shudder. His words sounded like a threat. I ducked down, picking up the towels and blanket. "In fact, I'm sure of it."

I couldn't get away fast enough. Michael shoved the cooler in the back seat and we got in the car. For a moment, I sat there silently. I didn't want to talk about it and I just knew Michael was waiting for some sort of explanation.

"Are you all right to drive?" he asked gently.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, then opened them again. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Good. Let's go find another piece of beach so we can have lunch and soak up some sun."

I smiled in spite of myself. Michael wasn't going to let this unpleasant little interlude spoil our time together. I started up the car and we crept slowly along, finally finding a more secluded spot nearer the dense part of the woods.

After lunch, Michael brought out the sunscreen and began applying it to his already-nicely tanned skin.

"Would you mind doing my back?" he asked.

My breath caught. The thought of my hands moving over his muscles was making me tingle. Wordlessly, I took the bottle from him, squirting some of the white lotion on my hands, warming it between them before applying it to his back. The scent wafted upward to my nostrils after contacting his warm skin. He flexed his shoulders when I touched him, muscles rippling. I suppressed a sigh, centering my eyes on the middle of his back as I rubbed the lotion in; I found my eyes wandering upward to the nape of his neck and had a sudden urge to kiss him there. I had to bite my lip to keep from giving in to the temptation.

When I finished, I could feel the flush to my body and he turned to me. "Shall I do yours?"

My eyes lowered as I turned around, presenting my back. "Sure."

The touch of his large hands on my back sent shivers up my spine despite the day's warmth. He laughed softly at my reaction. "An angel must have passed by. You've got gooseflesh," he told me with amusement.

Suddenly, I leaned back against his chest, closing my eyes. "I don't think an angel had a thing to do with it."

His breathing increased in my ear and I smiled when I felt his lips brush my neck. "You're tempting me, Ms. Sands," he told me in a low voice, the syllables reverberating against my skin.

"I've heard," I told him in a breathless voice, "that the only way to overcome temptation is to give in to it."

His chuckle was deep. "And where did you hear that from?"

"I have no idea. Maybe I just made it up."

"Interesting philosophy." He placed a lingering kiss on my neck, then turned me around to face him. He looked at me with affection, amusement and indulgence. "Rachel, you've been trying to seduce me since I first met you."

He was beginning to sound placating. I didn't think I liked that too much. "I guess I have," I admitted. "And is that a bad thing?"

"I don't know. It could complicate things." He reached up, caressing my cheek. "I am so tempted."

Something in me plummeted. "Don't humor me."

"I'm not."

I looked away. "Then either do it or don't do it. Don't just talk . . . "

He grabbed the back of my head and pulled my mouth to his, enveloping me in a kiss that absolutely took my breath away. Threads of painful and pleasurable fire shot through me as he plundered my mouth with his tongue and I moaned. God, how could a kiss feel and taste so good? When he broke the kiss -- if you could call it that -- he nibbled my lower lip and ringed the perimeter of my mouth with his tongue, ending with another open-mouth caress that left me gasping.

He brushed my hair back with his hands, looking deeply into my eyes. "Is your curiosity satisfied now?" he queried softly.

My mouth must have hung open in disbelief. I could feel my nostrils flaring in anger and the look on his face changed from neutral amusement to concern. He knew exactly what I was going to do before I did it and caught my wrist before my hand had a chance to come in forceful contact with his face. I glared at him for a long moment as he held my wrist captive in his large hand.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean that to sound the way it did."

"Didn't you?" I hissed angrily.

"No. I didn't. I wanted to kiss you as much as you wanted me to." He licked his lips.

I frowned, confused. "Then why . . . "

"Defense mechanism," he interrupted, loosening his grip. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Please believe me."

Something in his voice, or maybe a flicker in his features, made me lose my anger. "It's OK," I conceded. "I guess I was pushing it."

"You weren't doing anything I didn't want you to," Michael said distinctly. Then he smiled that rakish smile and my heart absolutely melted. "C'mon. I feel like another swim across the lake. You game?"

"But we just got done putting sunscreen on . . ." I protested.

"So we'll put more on when we get back. Something I'll look forward to."

It was after four when we finally left Gray's Lake. I parked in the parking garage next to the Marriott and we went in through the inside elevator to the lobby floor. Michael had the penthouse suite -- beautiful, huge and modern with a sunken living room area, two bedrooms, a hot tub and a master bath just off the master bedroom. There was a small kitchenette off the living area and a bar in the other corner.

"Why don't you have a long soak in the bathtub?" Michael suggested, indicating the master bath off his bedroom. "I think you'll find everything you need. I can take a shower in the other."

I happily complied. I wandered into the bathroom with my bag, then dropped it, stunned. The tub was sunken marble -- pink marble laced with splotches of grey. There was a mirrored ceiling and mirrored walls. The tub was about twenty feet in circumference and round, easily large enough for about four or five people. Michael stood in the doorway, a slight smile on his face.

"Don't be afraid to fill it up with lots of bubbles," he said, winking, then turned and disappeared through the bedroom to the living area.

It took awhile to fill. I found lilac-scented bath salts and used them generously and a matching scented bubble bath. When I eased my aching body into the almost-hot water, it was sheer heaven and I leaned back, enjoying the wisps of steam that rose up and steamed the glass. I felt like such a decadent woman. Why should I be enjoying this? I wondered to myself.

"Why shouldn't you be?" I asked aloud, staring defiantly at my reflection in the mirrored wall across from me. "I could get used to this," I said aloud again, scrubbing my skin with softly-scented soap.

I must have luxuriated for the better part of an hour. It took me another forty minutes to dry off, blow-dry my hair, dress and apply makeup and jewelry. I smiled at my reflection as I finished. Not bad, I decided with a bit of self-pride.

In wandering through the bedroom, I heard voices on the other side of the partly-closed doors. One voice was Michael's -- the other one was the clear alto of a woman. Both voices were evenly controlled. I peeked around he corner. Michael was sitting comfortably in one of the plush chairs, wearing pristine white suit, busily signing some papers. He wore no tie but the shirt was mandarin-style and very dressy. A lovely dark-haired woman sat across from him on one end of the sofa, shapely legs crossed, wearing a white skirt and casual short-sleeved sweater.

" . . . so we'll have to bring Bill Patton on in place of Waterston for the A56-W project," Michael was saying. "I can't have an empty slot on Moffett's team. I need this project resurrected now, not six weeks from now."

"I'll have security clearance for Patton by tomorrow," the woman assured him, taking the proffered papers. "I can be back in time tonight to have them put through and they'll be ready by tomorrow morning."

"Good. I don't want anymore time lost on this."

Undoubtedly they were discussing something classified. I backed up a few steps and made some obvious noise as I swung the door open. Michael and the woman looked up and I saw the pleased look on Michael's face. He rose and came toward me, taking my hand and leading me to where the dark woman sat, staring at me with undisguised curiosity. On closer observation, she was even more beautiful than I'd thought -- an exotic, mixed look, probably part African-American, I decided.

"Rachel Sands, I'd like you to meet Marella," Michael introduced us warmly. "Marella's my right arm. I depend on her for everything."

I took her hand and smiled. "It's a pleasure, Ms. . . ."

"Just Marella," she said with a small smile. "It's good to meet you, Rachel. Michael's told me a lot about you."

"Good things, I hope."

"Oh, definitely good things. I hope you'll seriously consider a place with us," she told me, loosing my hand to place the papers back in a briefcase she held in her lap. Then, she rose. "I'd better get going. I'll see you on Friday, Sir?"

"Yes. In the a.m."

"I'll make sure everything is ready." She smiled again. "Good to meet you, Rachel."

"Likewise," I nodded.

Michael left my side briefly to see Marella to the door, then stood just outside it talking to her in low tones. I turned, waiting until I heard the door click shut and Michael's returning footsteps. He was smiling broadly.

"You look ravishing," he pronounced, taking my hands in his.

"You clean up rather nicely yourself," I replied with a grin.

"I do, don't I?" There was a devilish gleam in his eye. "Well, then. Let's depart."

The evening was going remarkably well, I thought, half-way into the musical. It was so lovely, having driven almost all thoughts of the unpleasant encounter of the afternoon away. Michael was being his usual charming self, even moreso if such a thing were possible. He'd sensed my upset earlier, yet hadn't questioned me and the fact he had automatically shored up my defenses against my six antagonists was something I marveled at. I'd never known anyone to give me the benefit of the doubt without having all facts on hand first.

There had been a moment during The Man of La Mancha -- the scene in which Aldonza was raped -- when I nearly lost composure. It seemed Michael had been watching me as much as he'd been watching the play an during that time, moved closer to me in the booth, one arm going securely about my shoulders. I took great comfort in that gesture, knowing it had nothing at all to do with making a pass. He was simply trying to lend support.

We were walking arm-in-arm toward her car after the performance, chuckling over one of the actors flubbing one of the crucial lines, when Michael stopped and turned to me.

"Do you like to dance?" he asked abruptly.

"Love it," I replied.

"Is there a ballroom somewhere around here?"

"Ballroom dancing? Uhm . . ." I frowned, racking my brain. Then, I snapped my fingers. "Southwest on Army Post Road. The Firefly Ballroom -- I think Johnny Morgans Band is playing there this weekend." I smiled. "You like Big Band and Swing, huh?"

"I was practically raised on it. You game?"

"I've been to the Firefly a time or two -- with the older brother of a friend of mine who was totally into jazz, swing and blues."

Twenty minutes later we were entering the elegant stucco building amidst stares from the older set. There were a few younger ones there and when Michael flamboyantly led me to the dance floor and did a few smooth moves, we were applauded appreciatively. The remainder of the night went much too fast. By one a.m., things started really winding down, bu we were still dancing to the softer strains coming from the band.

"You're a good dancer, Ms. Sands," Michael allowed approvingly.

"My father had a lot to do with my knowing hot to dance properly," I told him. "He and my Mom, come hell or high water, always came to this ballroom or the one on the other side of town at least once a week. Sometimes twice. Dad had all the old records and taught me how to dance in the living room."

"He was a great teacher." Michael paused, eyes warm. "You're really quite bewitching, you know," he said softly. "I could very easily . . . lose myself with you."

I blushed hotly. "You're a charming man, Michael, and I like it so much I can forgive you for lying."

"I'm sorry you feel I'm doing that."

I searched his face intently. But, I reminded myself, he was a master of control, of deception. He could easily lie to me with a straight face and make me believe it.

"Aren't you?" I whispered, my voice catching a little.

"Not about this."

The tension was absolutely delicious between us.

"The feeling is very mutual," I finally admitted quietly. "It would be very easy to fall in love with you, Michael."

Gently, he laid his forefinger on my lips, his features compassionate and a little sad. "Don't make that mistake," he advised me softly, in a voice so caressing and undeniably kind that I wanted to cry. "My sweet angel, don't ever make the mistake of falling in love with me. You'll be in deep trouble if you do -- and you'll be in for a world of hurt if I make the mistake of loving you back. Be part of my intelligence family -- let me help and guide you. Let me mentor you. If you choose to love me, then love me. But don't fall in love with me. I can't afford . . ." He broke off. "You'd be terribly unhappy after awhile, Rachel. Take my word for it."

"You didn't come back here to see me just for a follow-up," I accused him gently.

Michael looked down into my face. "No. I didn't. I wanted to see you again."

"And why was that?" I persisted.

"Because I'm doing what I just said I can't afford to do. I'm falling for you."

"Then we're in quite a predicament, aren't we?" My voice held more calm than I felt.

"I believe we are. I know it's a mistake, but I can't help the way I feel about you."

"Sounds like we're in the same boat," I said, "with no oars."

He took me in a dip as the music ended. When he brought me back up, our faces were bare centimeters apart. I could almost feel the hairs of his moustache on my skin. His tongue barely grazed my upper lip; before I could stop myself, the tip of my tongue caught his.

"God help me," Michael whispered, lips sinking down to mine.

I surged upward, molding myself into his body as his tongue invaded my mouth. The fire that had flared up between us was almost tangible. I'd never been so breathless, as if I was having my soul sucked out of me. After long moments, he lifted his mouth from mine, eyes smoldering.

It was as if by silent mutual agreement we left, strolling hand-in-hand outside to the parking lot. We reached my car and stopped. I turned, taking his hands in mine.

"That was intense," I stated calmly.

"Yes, it was." Michael squeezed my hands. "What do we do now?"

I breathed in slowly, trying to clear my head. "I don't want the night to end, do you?"

"No. But I think if we give in to what we want to do -- Rachel, I hardly know you, but I feel like I've known you forever. If we make love and you decide you want to come work for me, it could make things damned uncomfortable. I couldn't treat you like an operative then and in my profession, I can't afford to treat you as anything else. It would cause petty jealousies and chaos in the ranks if I favored one operative over the other."

"So -- is this a choice you're giving me? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I can provide you with an interesting, exciting career if you want it. Or I can provide you with an interesting and exciting relationship if you want it. But I can't give you any guarantees on either one."

"At least you're giving it to me straight. I appreciate that." I loosed his hands, folding my arms over my chest. "No matter what happens -- it still doesn't preclude you from being my friend, does it?"

"Absolutely not." He smiled.

"All right then, friend of mine. Considering the situation, perhaps friendship is the best choice at this point."

"Are you going to come work for me?" he asked, hopeful.

It was my turn to smile. "I'd planned to pretty much from the outset. I was just playing with your head."

"I figured as much." He neared me, brushing back my hair from my cheek. "Come back with me to the suite. I've got a bottle of Napoleon brandy just begging to be opened for such an occasion."

"Mmm. Can't say no to Napoleon brandy, now, can I?"

"You better not. At least I know you can appreciate it."

The atmosphere lightened a bit as we got inside my car. We were about halfway to the hotel when I looked over at Michael's profile. He seemed to be thinking, but I took a chance he was listening anyway.

"Thank you for treating me like a lady, Michael. I appreciate it more than you will ever know," I said quietly.

"It's no effort, angel. Because you are one."

"You think?" I smiled secretly. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think. I can be an absolute bitch if the occasion calls for it."

"Good. I like women with backbone. Anyone who says women are the weaker sex should be publicly flogged."

"You like to take care of women, don't you, Michael? You have a real need for it."

I saw his lop-sided smile from the corner of my eye. "You've nailed me, my dear. But I don't want you to think I'm a chauvinist. Well -- maybe I am to a certain extent. But let me tell you -- most of my operatives are women, simply because I chose it to be that way, and not for the reasons you think. I don't think women are always treated fairly in a lot of different ways. They have to work twice as hard to be perceived as good as a man when half the time, they're better. There is nothing a woman can't do that a man can, given the right opportunities, environment and encouragement. I've had people try to crucify me for believing that way. But extremely low turnover rate in my department attests to the fact that I'm right." He paused. "My so-called 'angel corps' takes very good care of me and I take care of them. I told you. We're a family."

"And you're the patriarch."

"Yes. And in the Department I run -- I'm God."

A burst of laughter exploded from my lips. "Oh, my!"

"That sounded arrogant, didn't it?" He grinned.

"It sounded obnoxiously arrogant! Tell me, do we turn our faces from your shining light or are we allowed to gaze upon you?"

He chuckled. "I allow a certain amount of gazing." He reached over, touching my hair at the shoulder. "Especially from lovely ladies like you."

I smiled and blushed, at a loss of what to say. We reached the hotel and Michael told me to give my keys to the lot attendant. Hm. He was serious about not wanting the night to end. That made me feel good. He enjoyed spending time with me. He turned on the lights when we got to the suite, then dimmed them.

"Make yourself at home," he said, moving over to the bar. He opened a cabinet door and brought out a musty decanter and reached for two snifters. Expertly, he uncorked the bottle and poured the lovely amber liquid into the glasses.

He handed me one glass and then at down beside me on the sofa, carefully measuring an acceptable distance between us. He was close, but not too close.

"Mmm. Exquisite." He paused, savoring the flavor.

"My father had a nose for sniffing out little gems like this," I told Michael. "I can remember once he brought a bottle of this stuff home from overseas. He wouldn't tell me where he got it from. I must have asked him six dozen times." I smiled in remembrance. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

"I've had Napoleon brandy twice in my life and it tastes better every time I'm treated to it," Michael told me. "It's a treasured rarity."

"This is my first. I'll probably never experience it again."

Michael grinned suddenly, reaching over to place an arm around my shoulders and pulling me next to him. "Stick with me, kid. I'll take you places you've never been and show you things you've never seen before."

"You've talked me into it." I flushed pleasantly, enjoying the contact. After a few minutes of companionable silence, I put my brandy down on the end table and leaned into his side, placing one arm around his waist. It felt comfortable and not the least bit awkward. "Thank you for championing me this afternoon, even though you didn't know what was going on."

Michael looked down at me for a moment, then placed his brandy glass down, too, taking my hand from his waist and holding it close to his chest. "That's quite all right. You looked like you could use a little help. I trust I wasn't too forward."

"We're past that, Michael."

"I guess we are. Are we to the point where you can tell me about this afternoon?" I breathed in sharply at the question and was silent for a long moment. "You can trust me," he said soothingly. "I promise you."

"Four years ago, I pledged Phi Mu Alpha sorority and was accepted as a pledge." My voice had dropped to almost a whisper. "Anyone who hoped to get anywhere in the music world pledged Phi Mu. At first, it was the same as any sorority -- we had hell week and it wasn't so bad. It was silly stuff, you know, like wearing your underwear outside of your clothes, stuff like that. Not malicious stuff." I quieted. "By the end of Hell Week I thought I was a shoo-in. All the girls seemed to like me. Lori's sister Marnie, who was a senior, seemed to take a special liking to me and that was a good thing. Then -- " I hesitated.

"What went wrong?" Michael asked quietly.

"Friday night, there was a big party at the sorority house. Lots of booze. Lots of -- stuff going on in the back bedrooms. I didn't think there was much more than pot-smoking going on, but I was wrong." I paused again. "Richard Daltrey and I were dating each other from the beginning of the school year. We ran into each other at one of the corner hangouts and just hit it off. Well -- Marnie's sister Lori wanted him and said as much. Richard didn't like the fact he wasn't going to get a cat-fight out of it, I guess. He liked having women fight over him. I basically told him it was his decision to make. Then, that Friday night, when almost everyone else was drinking and I was nursing a club soda, Marnie pulled me off to the side and told me to go upstairs and wait in one of the bedrooms for the rest of my pledge initiation. I didn't think anything of it, because she sent a couple of other pledges up, too." I felt Michael's mouth against my knuckles and I rested my head on his shoulder.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"Someone slipped a mickey in my club soda without my knowledge and I passed out cold. When I woke up, it was almost four in the morning and Richard . . ." My voice cut out. "I was gang-raped by some of the Phi Mu boys, and Richard was their ringleader. I couldn't be sure how many had raped me, but I remembered Richard, Todd and Steve. It wasn't just me. Two other girls were raped that same night."

"Jesus." Michael stroked my hair. "I'm sorry, Rachel."

"Do you know why we were singled out?" My voice trembled. "It wasn't even the Richard/Lori thing. It was nationality. If I'd had anything but a Native American heritage, I'd have been accepted without question. The other two girls that were raped -- one was of Japanese heritage and the other girl was a foreign exchange student from Brazil." My teeth clenched. "I can trace back my lineage to French, Irish and Scottish kings -- and my Native American ancestry to Chief Blackhawk and Cochise! But because I had Indian blood -- THAT was the reason I was raped."

"Did you report to the Dean? To the University president?"

"Sure we did. I went through the humiliation of an emergency room visit and through all their little tests and so forth, and then wound up having Richard's father tell me that I'd had too much to drink and invited his son into bed with me." I looked up at his profile. "Michael, I wasn't a virgin, but I didn't do that. I don't drink as a general rule and I don't do drugs, not even pot. There were traces of that mickey in my blood, but it came down to my word against a senator's son and the sons of business tycoons who also, coincidentally, made large contributions to the school. My father was so furious he went to the President and demanded that something be done. Then, he got a visit from Richard's dad, who offered to pay us off for our silence."

"I can believe it," Michael said, rather drily. "I know Richard's father."

"So when Dad more or less told him to go to hell, Daltrey reminded him that all sorts of unpleasant things could happen if he didn't let it drop. Dad could only take so much. He had a heart attack two days later, and I know it was Senator Daltrey that put him there. So I took matters into my own hands."

"What did you do?" Michael leaned back from me, peering into my face.

"I got pictures of Senator Daltrey and a call girl in a compromising situation. Let's just say Senator Daltrey's preferences in the sexual arena aren't what one would consider within the realms of normal."

"That's a dangerous game, Rachel."

"It was very dangerous. I don't regret it for a minute."

"What was the price you blackmailed him for?"

I leaned back. "A nice settlement for the other two girls along with having their college tuition paid for at any other school of their choosing. And for me -- full membership into the Phi Mu Sorority, just so I could have it on my resume. I also assured him that I'd have copies of the pictures distributed to several tabloids if he ever decided to renig."

"Was that a bluff?"

"No. My dad's friend, Cal Kinkaid, who's a lawyer, has the copies. If anything were to ever happen to me, it would all come out in the open."

"Rachel, men like Daltrey have killed for much less. That took guts."

"I figure someday the opportunity will present itself, and payback will be hell."

"Ah. A girl after my own heart. Look's like you 've got a good start on that already." He took a sip of brandy. "You have an acute sense of what's right and what's wrong."

"I have a basic code I go by. Want to hear it?"

"Definitely."

"If you fuck with me, if you fuck with my family or fuck with my friends -- I'll fuck with you. No exceptions. And I'll win."

"Words to live by." He put his brandy down. "May I ask you a very personal question? You don't have to answer it. It's really none of my business."

"None of this was your business, I brought you into it. Go ahead and ask."

"Have you . . ." He hesitated. "Have you been with anyone after the rape?"

The silence was ominous. Finally, I answered in a soft voice. "No." I swallowed. "I never trusted anyone to get that close to me again."

"Then why were you coming on to me?"

My nostrils flared and I looked him straight in the eye. "Because you're the only one I've felt I could trust since my father died. Don't ask me why."

"An honest answer. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He brushed at my hair for a moment, looking into my face and I could see the compassion in his features. He wasn't feeling sorry for me, which relieved me. Michael had empathy, not sympathy.

"You're more than welcome to spend the night in the other bedroom," he told me quietly.

"I'd love to," I told him. "But I think I'd better go home."

"Why?" He traced my jawline with his forefinger.

"Because I won't be able to stay in my own room for very long. I'd be looking for you."

He smiled. "I see honesty is definitely not a problem with you. All right, then. Shall I pick you up for brunch tomorrow?"

"I'll meet you downstairs. Quinnelle's puts on a good one."

"I'll look forward to it. What are we going to do tomorrow?"
"I have no idea. Let me think about it."

When I was driving home, I felt a little funny at having revealed a chapter of my life that I'd not meant to tell anyone. But that's how it is with Michael. You find yourself telling that man things you thought you never would. He's a good listener. Good coach. Good at almost everything he does.

My house was silent and dark when I pulled into the drive. The only light came from the subdued purplish-white glow of the streetlamps. I got out of the car and walked around to the front steps instead of letting myself in through the side door. The side door needed a new doorknob, and I didn't want to jiggle it anymore than necessary until I'd had a chance to replace it. My house was Victorian, painted white, almost reminiscent of a castle with the turrets. It was situated on a hill in one of the better sections of town west of the college campus. A huge cemetery sprawled across the street, acres of land for the dead, eerily beautiful in it's midnight blanket of moonlight. It was where both my parents were buried. I stood and looked over it for a few moments. Other people would cringe at the location, but I'd always found it beautiful. It was more park than graveyard with it's oak and pine trees, man-made pools of water with ducks and swans and concrete, scrolled benches strategically placed under outstretched branches.

I'm not sure just exactly what moment the eerie feeling hit me. I remember the warm evening breeze rushing over me with a hint of pungent pine. When my hand rested on the front latch of my door, a tingle went through me. I stopped, the key in my hand. Something didn't feel right. I pushed at the door lightly and it opened inward. The old-fashioned bolt had been jimmied. My breath caught slightly in my throat and I strained, listening for sounds.

Nothing.

Swallowing, I fished inside my purse for some mace and held the bottle out in front of me as I entered the house. The first thing I noted was the odor. I put my hand over my nose and started breathing through my mouth. I switched on the central light in the living room.

At first, I had to stare to make sure I was seeing what I was seeing. Hesitantly, I approached the two figures sitting on my sofa, the mace can still held in front of me.

"Who are you?" I demanded in what I thought was an authoritative voice. There was no answer. I came around to the front of the sofa. "Who are -- ?"

I stopped in my tracks, voice paralyzed.

Two decaying corpses were reclining on my couch in a parody of homey bliss. To complete the picture, the TV was on low-volume. Then, I realized with sickening clarity that the corpses were that of my mother and father.

I couldn't scream. I couldn't move. All I could do was stare at the grinning, corrupt faces. I dropped my mace can and backed away, blindly reaching for the phone and a scrap of paper I had sitting beside it.

"Hello?" Michael sounded a little groggy.

"Michael." It was getting hard to breathe.

"Rachel? What's the matter?" He was immediately alert. "What is it?"

"Michael . . . cou--could you c-come . . . t-to my h-house?"

"Rachel, what's wrong?"

"P-please. J-just come."

"I'm on my way. Angel, are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"P-please, Michael."

In retrospect it couldn't have taken him more than twenty minutes. It seemed like an eon. By the time he came up the steps and walked in without knocking, I'd sunk down to the floor, still cradling the phone in my hands. I was so numb, so horrified, I didn't know what I should have even been feeling.

"Rachel?" He knelt at my side, then looked up at the horror camped out on my sofa. "Oh, good Christ." After a few moments, he gently took the phone out of my hands and started to dial a number. "This is Archangel, code 954-427-322. Give me the head of the forensics division immediately." He paused. "Hello, Carl? Yes, I'm in town. I need you and a team pronto at this address . . ." He spoke awhile on the phone to this Carl, dialed another number, spoke to someone else, then put it down on the table and turned to me again. "Rachel, sweetheart, come away. We'll wait outside. Come on."

I didn't have the energy or inclination to argue. We sat in the swing on the porch and one of his arms was securely around me. After a few minutes, I found my tongue.

"They were my parents," I managed, nearly croaking.

Michael was silent, but I could almost sense the fury in his body. His fingers were bruising my arm. "I'm so sorry, Rachel. Whoever did this, we'll nail them."

"Is . . . that what those phone calls were about?"

"I've got both a security and forensics team coming here. Don't worry. They'll be discrete. We aren't even going to get the police involved. If we did, it would be all over the headlines tomorrow morning. You don't want that, do you?"

I shook my head, croaking, "No."

"Which cemetery, Rachel?" It took a moment for the question to sink in. "Rachel? Which cemetery?"

"W. . . Woodland." I pointed across the street. "Over there."

"Well, at least it's close." He turned to me. "Will you be all right here for a second?"

I nodded. I couldn't do much else. Michael disappeared into the house again and I heard him on the phone, but I had no idea who he was talking to or what it was about. At that point, I didn't much care. I was so wrung out all I wanted to do was crawl in a corner somewhere and die.

About that time two or three dark cars pulled up to the front curb and some men and women exited from them, carrying with them various cases and equipment. I sat still and watched as they invaded my home. Michael came back out about ten minutes later and sat with me.

"Would you be able to take us where you're parents are buried?" he asked gently.

Again, I nodded. "Yeah. I can do that."

We heard a commotion in the back and looked over. A figure flashed by in a dark-colored sweatshirt with one of Michael's security right behind him. The fleeing figure didn't even get halfway across the street when he was tackled to the ground and then hauled up by the scruff of the neck. When the light fell upon his face, I couldn't believe it.

It was Todd Sheridan, Richard's football buddy.

"Things are beginning to fall into place," Michael said quietly, rising to his feet.

"Todd didn't do this." I was positive about that. He might have participated, but he wouldn't have masterminded it. "This smells like Lori and Richard's handiwork."

"I'll lay odds that they all had a hand in it." He sized Todd up as he was forced up the steps. "How loyal is he?"

"Todd? To Richard? Well, they stuck together about raping me."

Todd's defiant face loomed into view. He'd been cuffed as two burly security men shoved him forward.

"Isn't this a little off your beaten path?" Michael asked him mildly.

"I don't have to tell you anything." He sneered. "Can't arrest me for walking down an alley."

"Young man, I can do anything I want."

"My father . . ."

"You're father couldn't bail you out of this predicament no matter how much money or influence he has."

Todd started looking a little nervous, now. "Hey. I know my rights. You can't do anything to me. I want my lawyer!"

"We're not law enforcement." Michael's expression became that of a predatory cat. "You have no rights with me. I can do anything I want to with you. I could have you killed -- " He snapped his fingers, " -- like that, and no one would find you for weeks. And when they did, it would look like an accident. 'Drake Graduate Drowns In Local Area Lake.' Or 'Former Football Jock Decapitated In Freak Mishap.'"

Todd's eyes widened and I couldn't help but feel a rush of vindictive satisfaction. I watched as the decomposed bodies of my parents were wheeled out of the house and swayed a little. Michael held onto me, pulling me protectively into his side.

"Hey, man. You can't just . . . you can't do that! I'm a United States citizen! I have rights! It's in the Constitution."

"It doesn't do squat for you where I'm concerned." Michael's eyes burned into him fiercely. "You see -- you just happened to be a part of something that's terribly distressed my friend, here. I take care of my friends, Mr. Sheridan. Rather like you came to Richard Daltrey's rescue four years ago when this young lady was raped, courtesy of your fraternity brothers. You're mine."

"But you can't . . ."

Michael struck like a cobra, lifting him off the ground as his hands wound into the collar of his shirt. "I CAN! I'm not local law enforcement! I'm not FBI! I'm CIA and I'm your worst fucking nightmare, you asshole! Do you have any idea what I will have done to you if I find even one single print that belongs to you?" Michael hissed. "One shred of evidence is all I need. And I'll have you, my friend, unless you start talking here and now!"

Todd was almost turning purple and I was shocked at my future boss' tactics. Daringly, I stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm. He didn't look at me and I watched his nostrils flare.

"Michael," I said quietly. "Let go. You're choking him."

After a suspended moment, Michael eased off, setting him down roughly and pushing him back into the custody of the security men. "You're extremely lucky Rachel's here or I'd be taking you apart by now." He composed himself, brushing off his white suitcoat lapels. "Give me names."

Todd sang like a bird. Of course, our instincts had been correct. Richard and Lori had spearheaded the whole thing after they left the Lake. One final parting shot, Todd had said. He was miserable and if I'd been a little softer-hearted, I might have even felt sorry for him. But seeing the corpses of my parents had been burned into my memory so hideously, I couldn't. I sure couldn't forgive him. Or any of them.

In the cemetery, I led them to the dug-up graves. The groundskeeper who lived on the premesis had been alerted of our imminent arrival. Michael somehow extracted a vow of silence from the man as I waited in one of the sleek black town cars. After almost an hour, he returned to the comfortable interior.

"You're staying at the penthouse with me tonight," he informed me, voice broaching no argument. "When we get this settled, I'll send one of my operatives with you to your house. You'll pack up what clothes and items you want to take with you. You're coming out to Los Angeles with me immediately."

"I . . . Michael, I have a house to sell!" I protested.

"I'll have it taken care of. I'll speak to your real estate agent if you'll give me the number. If you have to be here to close the deal, I'll have you flown out."

"But what about . . ." My voice faltered as I looked out the window at the people milling about the open graves.

He took my hand. "Rachel, you said tonight that you trusted me."

My eyes locked to his. "I do."

"Then let me take care of you."

I bit my lip to keep from crying. No one but my father had ever looked after me like this. I bit back a sob I felt at the back of my throat and nodded. I didn't dare speak because I didn't trust my voice.

We stopped back at the house and he had his driver go upstairs to get me a change of street clothes, nightclothes and my dufflebag I'd had earlier. Then we drove back to the hotel. He led me to the guest bedroom, going so far as to pull back the covers for me and placing my dufflebag on the bed. It was going on four a.m. He went into the bathroom and came out with a glass of water and pressed something into my hand.

"Take this," he instructed softly.

I looked down at the pill in my hand. "What is it?"

"Valium. I want you rested."

The protest died on my lips when I looked back up at him. Reluctantly, I took the proffered drug.

"If I'm not here by the time you wake up, stay here. Order up, watch TV, do whatever you like, but stay in the suite," he told me. "Will you do that?"

"OK," I mumbled. I didn't like it, but I was ready to let Michael take control of the situation. This event had shaken me to the core. I wasn't dealing with it well and I knew it.

I remember Michael pulling me close to place a kiss on my forehead and then leaving the room, me stripping down to my underwear and then . . .

Then, I don't remember a damn thing.

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

END PART I

BACK TO INTRO

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Susan Rossi, Webmistress
shewolf75@hotmail.com
October 2, 1999