SERAPH

Part 3

By Linda Ryner

New York was as wonderful as could be imagined. Michael knew exactly how to show a girl a good time in the Big Apple and took enormous delight in showing me the sights, taking me shopping and escorting me to The King and I that first evening. Yul Brynner was hands down the best King of Siam there was on stage, even outdoing Rex Harrison in the film version years ago. I found myself misty-eyed at the end, holding onto Michael's arm tightly as the house lights went up. A smile played about his mouth as he looked over at me and he actually reached across to brush a tear from my cheek.

"I hope you don't mind if we go straight to our suite," he told me as we walked out of the theater. "I want to be fresh for tomorrow. I haven't seen Evelyn in quite awhile."

Evelyn Winthrop, Michael's older sister by one year, lived in Connecticut -- in Westport, to be exact. She'd married a real estate whiz kid twenty years ago, giving her father a near-heart attack at her choice in men. But they weathered that and of course, once the grandkids came, their father had been decidedly won over.

"I don't mind at all," I told him. "I'm kind of tired anyway." We'd had an early supper that night and I was tired enough I could have fallen asleep very easily in the limousine. We went our separate ways when we entered the Waldorf suite and said our goodnights.

I don't know what it was that woke me in the middle of the night, it could have just been the sense that I was in a strange room of unfamiliarity. Gently, I pushed open my door that led into the central sitting room. The lights were burning and Michael was sound asleep at the desk, leaning back in his chair. I shook my head. The man never stopped, and it was going on one a.m. I hated to wake him, but thought I better, or when he did wake up, he was going to be terribly sore from falling asleep in such a position.

Gently, I knelt at his side, my hand on his arm, and I shook it. "Michael." He sighed once, shifting slightly. "Michael," I called insistently, shaking his arm a little more firmly. "Wake up. Wake up."

His eyes opened and he looked down at me sleepily. "Mmmm, wha -- ?" He stopped, just staring at me.

"You're going to be tied in knots if you fall asleep here," I told him softly. "C'mon, you need to go to bed."

A contemplative smile teased his mouth. "That's funny. You don't look anything like my mother."

I grimaced in mock irritation. "If I was your mother, I'd be tanning your hide. Now come on."

"Ooo. I love a domineering woman." He smiled sweetly as he rose to his feet sleepily. I stood at his elbow, waiting to make sure he was steady enough on his feet. He looked at me in amusement. "Are you going to undress me for bed, too?"

The thought had crossed my mind many times. I bit back a smart remark, which was a first. "I think I'll let you handle that. I'll just point you in the right direction."

"Aw, c'mon. No guts, no glory."

I stepped back, crossing my arms and looking at him defiantly. "Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, do you want me in your bed or not? If not, I'd like to take advantage of that wonderful King-size bed in my own room and get a good night's sleep. If you do, quit beating around the bush and let's screw each other's brains out 'til dawn and cut the teasing."

Michael stared at me for a minute, then laughed, walking past me to the bedroom. "Go to bed, Rachel. Sweet dreams."

"Yeah, I wish." I grumpily traced my steps back to the other bedroom on the other side of the suite.

As I lay in bed trying to get back to sleep, I thought about how Lillian had goodnaturedly encouraged me to seduce the boss. Half the time I didn't know if she was serious. Half the time I didn't know how serious I should be about it. I was constantly asking myself the question -- if this relationship with Michael ever became something intimate and deep, would I be able to still work for him? Or would it prove to be too complicated? And did I have the guts to find out?

I'd been known to tempt Fate. I was always pushing the envelope. To see how far I could go. So far, I hadn't reached a breaking point.

So far I'd been damn lucky.

With a sigh, I turned over, pulling the sheets around me and curling up in an almost-fetal position.

"What the hell have I gotten myself into?" I questioned the darkness.

The answer was silence.

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

Evelyn's home in Westport was quite magnificent, but very homey and bright. She went for the modern look in most of the rooms except for the bedrooms, kitchen and her husband, Lee's, study. Those rooms held much warmth -- family heirlooms, warm woods, fireplaces, earth tones. Evelyn herself was a warm and witty woman, hardly looking a day over thirty, though she was forty years old. She was almost as tall as Michael and her hair was a golden brown. Her features weren't quite coarse, weren't quite delicate -- strong, I'd call them. Lee was off at a seminar and her two sons were off at College -- Yale, of course. However, a pleasant surprise greeted us when we arrived in our rented Mercedes. Michael's mother, Claire, was visiting.

Claire was a delight. She was warm and smiling and attentive. It was so obvious Michael was the apple of her eye. During the time I was there, I could observe them, and their closeness was a lovely thing to see. I didn't mind being the outsider -- though they hardly made me feel like one. I was introduced as Michael's new recruit, but he made it very clear that my capacity while there was not that of operative or gofer. Claire had a gleam in her eye when I was introduced and she immediately took me under her wing.

I was looking forward to such a pleasant couple of days. When I wasn't helping Evelyn in the kitchen, I was out in the rose garden with Claire. Or horseback-riding with Michael -- Evelyn's husband had a lovely stable of thoroughbred horses. On Sunday afternoon, I was playing a lively game of frisbee with the two red Irish Setters, King and Kong in the back yard as Evelyn, Claire and Michael sat around the patio with tea and cakes.

Michael looked so different -- so totally at ease in walking shorts and a polo shirt -- as he chatted with his sister and mother. I would have given anything to know what was being said, but since I knew any kind of close conversation like that would come to a halt if I joined them, I contented myself with wrestling the dogs and expending a lot of energy running about with them. Finally, I couldn't hold out any longer and paced back toward the trio on the patio.

"Come sit!" Evelyn invited, pulling out a chair. "Have a little tea, Rachel."

"Oh . . . I need a shower," I protested with a smile.

"You can shower after. Believe me, sweating a little is not going to offend our delicate sensibilities," Claire said with a laugh.

I shrugged, catching Michael's eyes. "OK -- but don’t say I didn't warn you."

"Duly warned," Michael said, pouring me a cup of the steamy rich liquid. "Sugar?"

"Half the sugar bowl, please," I agreed.

Evelyn laughed. "A girl after my own heart!" She waited until I took a sip, then said, "Michael tells us you were majoring in music and were accepted to teach at Julliard. Why in the world did you come on board Michael's ship with a job like that in your hip pocket?"

I put my cup down. "Adventure, I guess. Curiosity. Oh, who am I kidding? Money had something to do with it."

"Oh," Claire acknowledged with a smile. "I thought it might possibly have had something to do with you lusting after my son."

I almost choked and whipped my eyes over to a grinning Michael. "What kind of stories have you been telling when I'm not around?" I demanded, half-seriously.

"Ah, a nerve has been struck," Evelyn said knowingly, smile still on her lips. "Brother dear, I suggest you use that charm to snare a lady permanently. You're not getting any younger."

"Rachel just wants to get me in bed, not down the aisle," Michael told her nonchalantly and I could have kicked him.

"Oh, but Michael, I've already gotten you in bed," I said sweetly. "And according to all reports, the rabbit's died."

All three of them nearly choked on their tea as I sat there with a perfectly straight face.

"What!" Evelyn squeaked, putting her cup down on the table. Her eyes went from my hands protectively lying on my stomach to her brother who sat across from me. Even Claire's smile disappeared.

"Oh, my God," Claire murmured, hands shaking. "Oh, heavens. Michael, why didn't you say something?"

"Because there's nothing to say!" Michael glared at me. "Rachel, this is not . . ."

"Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Coldsmith-Briggs," I interrupted solemnly. "Michael and I have already worked things out."

"Worked things out?" Evelyn was aghast for a moment, then shook her head. "Oh, there's nothing to work out. Michael, you're going to marry this woman. This week. MAYBE we can pass the baby off as being a couple of months premature . . ."

"Now hold on . . ." Michael began. "This isn't . . ."

"Michael, you can't leave this poor girl in the lurch!" Claire interrupted, agitated. "Good God, she's so young -- and she's carrying your child!"

"Oh, but Michael's already taken care of everything," I told everyone earnestly. "You see, he's sending me over to Tibet for the rest of my term to be looked after by this religious order of monks . . ."

"What!?" Evelyn shrieked.

" . . . and after the baby's born, he or she, will of course, become the new Dalai Lama . . ."

"Oh, God," Michael said, beginning to laugh.

". . . at which time Michael will send for me so we can go set up a shack on Bali where we can weave baskets and spear our own fish."

I sat back expectantly. For the space of about five seconds, Evelyn and Claire stared at me like I had three heads. Michael was still laughing and it was only then they realized it was a joke.

"Good God, you had us going there!" Claire told me, joining in the laughter.

"Only up to the part about the baby becoming the new Dalai Lama," I said.

"With Michael, you never know," Evelyn said, picking her teacup up again. "I wouldn't put any of it past him sometimes."

"Sometimes," I said, looking over the rim of my teacup at my boss who was still chortling, "I wouldn't put it past him, either."

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

My return to the office was a march triumphant. Lillian, Marella and Gabrielle flocked about me when I returned Tuesday morning. They'd received my gifts overnight post on the previous Monday morning -- I'd bought Gabrielle a case of imported beer and matching beer steins, Lillian a case of imported and assorted caviars and Marella a lingerie set from an exclusive boutique in D.C. In the midst of breathless retelling of my adventures, Michael rounded the corner, stopping briefly where we congregated.

"Good morning, ladies," was his cordial greeting. "Why value the present hour less than some future hour?"

"Translation, get back to work," Gabrielle said with a smile. "Good morning to you, too, Boss. By the way, special package was delivered to you by United Parcel It wasn't ticking, so we put it in your office."

Michael frowned. "Hm. Odd. I'm not expecting any packages." He shrugged, turning. "Lillian, I need to see you in my office. Pull my agenda up for the week and let's go over it."

I had a report to get going on, so I trailed Michael into his office and started tending to business. About the time I was ready to break for lunch, I heard Michael emit a muffled, "Oh, my good God."

I locked my desk drawer and glanced over where Michael, at his desk, had finally gotten around to unwrapping the package that had been delivered earlier. I watched him intently, wondering if the contents would give him as much pleasure as I'd thought before purchasing the item. He was shaking his head, muttering to himself, hands caressing the glass-encased 9 x 12 pen-and-ink.

"Incredible," he muttered. "Totally, utterly incredible."

I got up from my chair, taking my purse from the opposite drawer, discreetly trying to make an exit.

"Rachel."

I froze in my tracks, then slowly turned around to face my boss. "Yes, Sir?"

"Is this from you?"

I swallowed. He didn't like it? "Y-yes, Sir."

"My God." He gazed on it for a long moment. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He looked up at me again. "How did you know Edward Borein was one of my favorite western artists?"

I licked dry lips. "I . . . I didn't, Sir. Lucky guess."

He stared at me. Then, he motioned me over. Reluctantly, I stood at his side.

"This is a painting entitled 'Bronc Ride,'" he informed me quietly. "There is only one piece that I know of that's like this -- a one-of-a-kind painting -- and it belongs to a Mr. H. O. MacKinzie. His is dated 1930." Michael indicated a corner of the sketch. "This one's dated October 1929."

"The letter of authentication . . ." I began.

"No, no! I don't doubt it's authenticity!" Michael said, "Although I'm going to have a hand-writing analyst take a look at it anyway, just for insurance purposes. Don't you see? You've given me the original. He made two. This was the prototype he based MacKinzie's on." He looked up at me. "Not to sound crass, but . . . what did you pay for this, Rachel?"

Embarrassed, I looked down. "Michael . . ."

"Please."

I swallowed. "Fifteen hundred."

"Amazing." He shook his head. "The original MacKinzie has in his possession was given as a gift to him from the artist and valued at five thousand. This is worth at LEAST that. Probably more."

"So . . . you like it? I wasn't sure . . ."

"Rachel -- my favorite western artist AND an original older than the one everyone thought was the original? If I knew MacKinzie personally, I'd call him up to gloat! On top of it, now I've got some stuff to feed Beatrice for her celebrity column." His smile was dazzling. "Castle Gallery -- that's where?"

"A little hole in the wall not far from Union Station," I answered.

"They had absolutely no idea what they had," he said with a delighted laugh.

"I'm glad you like it, Michael."

"I LOVE it." His eyes were warm when he looked up again. "Thank you."

I smiled shyly and ducked out of the office, glad to get out of there. My cheeks were flushed when I met Marella at the elevators.

"Want to have lunch?" she asked me pointedly. "Gabrielle's already downstairs and Lillian is on her way. We want to hear everything about the trip."

"Yeah . . . sure. OK."

"You all right?" Marella peered into my face. "You look a little flushed."

"I do?" My hands went to my cheeks. "Hot flash."

"At twenty-four? I don't think so."

Lunch was fun, and when I told them about the conversation we had on the patio regarding my 'delicate' condition, they were practically howling. Marella's eyes were dancing brightly.

"You," she informed me pointedly, "had better watch it, my dear. Or I could see Michael making your fantasy a reality!"

"Yeah?" I queried, picking at my chicken salad. "I may just let him do it."

"I think he already is," Gabrielle said, smiling knowingly at Lillian. "There's already a lot of people pissed off that you're the boss' one and only as far as dates are concerned. It's raised a few eyebrows."

"Who opened their mouth? It wasn't me," I said, frowning.

"Accounting is as gossipy as any other department," Lillian told me. "Boy, you should have heard it when it got around that your time spent with Michael is going straight to charity. Nobody could believe it!"

"You're becoming notorious," Marella teased.

"Melissa Hiatt is ready to scratch your eyes out," Lillian stated. "She's been walking around with steam coming out of her ears since you left for that trip."

I rolled my eyes. "Melissa needs a life of her own."

"True," Marella said, "but I'd watch my back if I were you, Rachel. Melissa can be a cobra when properly motivated."

"So can I."

"Not like Melissa can."

"You might be surprised. I can shoot my venom pretty far."

My project of the annual report was finished by November 8. It had been quad-ruple checked by both me and Lillian for accuracy, especially when it came to the number-crunching, Michael had a final look at it, then it was duly duplicated, collated and distributed. Michael then decided he was taking me off clerical. He wanted me to start my training as a covert op.

My days were now filled with classroom study and homework. I even took an extra course on making explosives from simple cherry bombs to makeshift explosives that would stand a Soviet tank on its nose. I was pulling top scores on my papers and tests (and I had to work at it, too!) and Marella told me more than once that Michael was very pleased with my progress. I saw very little of Michael that November. It was always meetings or Special Projects he was involved with. Then came the fateful day when I was doing laps around the pool -- I'd worked up to thirty-five without stopping -- and I saw him watching comfortably from the sidelines. When I climbed out of the water he was waiting for me, holding out a towel, eyes twinkling.

"You're becoming a sleek machine," he told me admiringly. "I don't think there's an ounce of fat on you."

"Well, just wait, Michael," I returned with a lopsided smile. "The holidays are coming up. I'll probably gain ten pounds at the Christmas office party alone."

"You'd still look incredible." He wrapped the towel around me, walking me toward the women's locker room. "You're in marvelous shape."

"Thank you."

"When you're done showering and dressing, I'd like to take you to dinner," he continued, stopping with me before the entrance. "Nothing fancy, just that little bistro down the beach. You don't have to put the suit back on, just what you came in this morning."

"That's going to make me look very underdressed next to you," I told him. "I came in jeans this morning."

He shrugged. "Don't worry about it. It's ultra-casual dining. Front-door pick-up when you're ready." He leaned over, placing a kiss on my cheek. "See you then."

A warm flush crept over my body as I watched him go. With a little bit of a schoolgirl sigh, I entered the locker room and showered, shampooed and dressed. I applied bare basics in make-up because I wanted to look half-way presentable. After donning my deerskin boot moccasins and my fall wool-lined jacket, I hefted my backpack over my shoulder and proceeded to clock out and then check out at the front door of the building.

Dinner was lovely as always. Michael sat down to a steak salad with cornbread and I was having shrimp cocktail with the house salad. Michael ordered me a side of wild rice insistently, knowing I hadn't had lunch that day. To humor him, I ate it. When he dropped me off at my condo that night, it was almost nine o'clock. He told me he'd send a car around for me tomorrow morning since I'd left mine at Knightsbridge to come with him. Though dinner and companionship had been nice, I was glad to get home. I wanted to unwind a little and then go to bed.

It had to be my Indian blood.

Almost before I entered my condo, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I hesitated before putting the key in the lock. When I did, I didn't turn it, pulled it back out. Something wasn't right. My instincts kicked into overdrive and though there was no evidence there was anyone inside my apartment, I knew instinctively that there was. Somehow, I just knew.

Slowly, I backed away from the door as I would have a diamond-back rattler. Quickly, I turned toward the elevator which tinged and opened; two dark-clad men disembarked and if my hair was standing on end before, it really was now. They walked unhurriedly and deliberately toward me and I could see their sidearms under their jackets. My door swung open and two more men appeared, identically dressed. I swallowed and backed down the hall in the opposite direction, finally lunging down the stairwell, leaping down steps in strides as fast as I could. I almost went out the side door but decided against it. Going out the front would be better -- people walking up and down the street even at this hour would discourage them from grabbing me out in the open. I could cross the street and lose them on the beach -- I'd walked up and down them enough to know a few good hiding places if I could get to them.

I burst out onto the street and crossed it, dodging cars, desperately looking for Michael's limo. It was long gone, as I expected. I had to get to a public phone and call into the office, give my ID number and get assistance. It was standard operating procedure -- SOP -- when an operative even suspected they were being followed or that a kidnap attempt was imminent. I was pretty sure this qualified.

The moon was in it's waning stage, still visible in the sky, illuminating me starkly for my would-be captors. Just as my foot almost reached the curb on the other side, my path was suddenly cut off by a black sedan that careened out of a parking place from behind. The front doors opened and two more dark-suited men appeared. I was jarred rudely from behind and had a gun muzzle poked unceremoniously into my ribs.

"In the car. Now," came the menacing voice in my ear. I weighed my options and didn't like it. But obviously they wanted me for something or they would have killed me already.

"Go to hell!!" I suddenly shouted and heads turned. I wrenched away from the thug who held me. "Who are you? What you do you want? Why are you wearing guns?!"

At the mention of the word 'gun', a small uproar from pedestrians ensued and I swear a couple of the men looked nervous. Two of them made a grab for me again, but I scrambled out of their reach. They weren't going for their guns -- they couldn't afford a public confrontation or shoot-out. So I ran. And ran. And ran.

I zig-zagged. I looped. I doubled back. I ran down dark alleys. I shimmied up fire escapes and ran across buildings -- once jumping onto the next roof -- and then down the other side. Finally, I hid out in an abandoned warehouse on the third floor, pretty confident that I'd lost my pursuers. I leaned my head back in my sheltered corner, out of breath, my heart pounding in my rib cage.

What in the world had those men wanted with me? I wondered, baffled. I didn't think they were KGB, but then I hadn't been in the business long enough to know much of anything. I was still pondering this when I heard footsteps coming up stairs.

Unbelieving and panicking, I scrabbled over to the open window I'd come through, grabbing onto the fire escape and shimmying down to the alley. My feet no sooner hit the ground when I was suddenly surrounded by the dark-clad men, my exits cut off. The sound of guns having their safeties taken off hit my ears and I decided that discretion was the better part of valor at that particular point. I held up my hands and put them behind my head. One man filched my purse and confiscated my gun. Another yanked my arms behind my back and cuffed me and I was silently led to the end of the alley where the black sedan waited. A blindfold was put over my eyes the moment I was in the back seat of the car and all I could do was be a helpless passenger, swept up in the intrigue and danger of my chosen career.

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

My fresh training went through my head like a continuous reel. This was what was affectionately termed as a 'situation.' After racking my brain to try and figure out what somebody would want with a fresh recruit from The Firm, it came down to four things: 1.) Somebody wanted information on my boss because I was considered to be close to him; 2.) somebody thought I knew something about something I probably didn't; 3.) the Soviets were going to try and turn me to become a double agent or 4.) this was something outside my having anything to do with The Firm, and the first person that came to mind was Senator Daltrey. None of the prospects thrilled me.

A good agent, with continual brainwashing by someone who knows what they're doing, will break in about three days, depending on individual physical and mental strength, fear and freak-out factors. Or at least that was what was drilled into our heads. So the first 72 hours were most important to try and keep a certain mind-set -- and to escape your captors if at all possible. If escape was impossible and it looked as if you were going to spill some key information, most full-fledged agents were provided with cyanide capsules while on missions. But this was on home turf. And I was just a trainee. I had absolutely no intention of sacrificing myself, either.

I was roused from the inside of the trunk of the car -- apparently after my 'sedation' (and I could still feel the prick in my arm where my jacket had been yanked off and my arm exposed to a syringe), I had been transferred there. I didn't know how much time had gone by, I still had a damn blindfold around my eyes and I was hungry as hell, so the journey we'd taken had to have taken most of the day. My head was throbbing and I stumbled when I was unceremoniously pulled from the car's trunk. I could hear the crunch of leaves beneath my feet -- the call of birds and squirrels chittering -- the smell of leaf rot and mold and pollen. We were in the woods. It was chilly, almost bone-chilling. At night, the temperature drops.

OK. So I was somewhere in the woods at night, likely northern California somewhere. That covered a pretty damn big area.

I heard the squeak of a door opening and tripped when my foot caught the front stoop. Cabin? I wondered. Most likely. I licked parched lips. I was pushed into an enclosed space with two people at my side and then I felt the earth move. What the hell? Earthquake? Then I realized, after hearing the hum of hydraulics, that we were in an elevator and going down.

A cabin in the middle of the woods with an elevator. Okay . . .

The elevator stopped with a muffled thump and the doors hissed open. I was shoved forward and I stumbled again. A massive hand closed over my upper arm as I was guided down the hall and to the left, then right, then right again. I was yanked to a stop, then felt the distinct presence of someone else. A checkpoint? I wondered. Another hiss of doors and we were moving again. Again to the right and then, after traversing about twenty-five feet, I was yanked to a stop again.

"We have the prisoner, Mr. Rask," came the voice of one of my captors. I noted the name, though I was certain it would do me little good. If this was an enemy agent, it was probably an alias that wouldn't show up on any records anywhere.

The voice in reply sounded tinny, and I deduced it must have been an intercom. "Show her in, gentlemen."

The doors hissed open and I was shoved inside.

"Goodness, gentlemen, show the lady a little courtesy," my host was heard to say. "Uncuff her and take off that ridiculous blindfold."

The blindfold was removed and I blinked several times, trying to adjust my eyes to the sudden light. Actually, the lights were a little on the low side, so it wasn't so much of a shock. Finally, my hands were free and I automatically brought them up, rubbing my chafed wrists. I looked around, noticing the luxury about me. Deep wood paneling accented the walls, tastefully decorated in the ultra-modern style. I was effectively standing in the middle of a living room area, and for the first time, I noticed that the stereo was on and Chuck Mangione was playing. My host was at the bar, filling two glasses with a red wine.

"You may go," he dismissed the two men who had accompanied me.

I turned, watching as the burly brutes in dark suits exited.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," the man invited. He was silver-haired, about five-six -- short for a man -- of almost delicate build. The grey suit he wore was distinctly European cut, his steely blue eyes penetrating. His moves were graceful as a cat's. My first impulse was to rebuff my host's invitation. But what good would it do me? Armed guards were undoubtedly outside. I had no way out unless I was escorted out. So, despite my rebellious heart, I accepted and sat down in a cushy overstuffed chair. He brought me a glass of wine which I accepted, but looked over the rim at him skeptically as he sat across from me in an identical chair.

"It's not drugged, my dear," he assured me in a calm, reasonable voice. "In fact, if it had been me personally in charge of your abduction, I wouldn't have allowed a sedative to be administered."

"I guess they thought I was getting too fiesty," I replied, taking a cautious sip of the wine. It was very good. But then, that was hardly unexpected. This man was used to having nothing but the best, judging from his surroundings.

"Yes, I understand you gave them my men quite a chase." He tilted his head. "I also have it on good authority that you have pretty sharp instincts."

"Apparently not sharp enough or I wouldn't have gotten caught."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. No one's made my men work this hard in about ten years." He took another sip. "Which brings about the reason for your being here."

I looked down into the glass of wine and suddenly it looked very red. "I have a few ideas, but why don't you tell me anyway."

"I'll get straight to the point, Ms. Sands," he replied smoothly. "We want you to come to work for us."

I looked up at him. "Oh, I'm sure you do."

"And we're ready to compensate you very well. You are in a very enviable position at The Firm."

I laughed mirthlessly. "I'm barely out of the clerical pool! I'm a first-year trainee, you moron! I know next to nothing about the business I'm in and I'm not even sure yet I want to STAY in!"

"You're the Deputy Director's official escort, Ms. Sands. That makes you extremely useful to us."

A stab of fear shot through me. My God. The man was wanting me to be a double agent -- a mistress, a Mata Hari! Sharing pillow talk with Michael and then sharing the secrets with them. My face was stone when I answered.

"My relationship with Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs is purely business. I'm an escort in the official capacity. And that's ALL I am."

"If your relationship with Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs is purely business, then why are you not being paid for your time with him? The money you earn during that time is going to the March of Dimes."

Another stab of fear went through me. "I don't sleep with my boss. I'm telling you, it's on a business level."

"But from what I understand, it could go up yet another level or two. You're in a very good position, Ms. Sands. In a position to make literally millions. We pay our moles very well."

I thought about my situation. I was effectively alone in the world -- no living relatives. I was it. They couldn't get at me through family. I had no close friends. Daltrey had been taken care of by Michael. They couldn't threaten me with anything. So they assumed that money would talk to me. They probably knew about the insurance policy my father had left me -- that I was used to living well, without want. That perhaps luxury was a temptation I would be loathe to pass up. They knew I was making good money at what I was doing and here they were offering me much more. They thought I could be bought.

"What makes you think I would have the slightest interest in going to work for you?" I queried. "I'm not greedy. I have enough of what I want. I don't crave to be set up in wealth for the rest of my life. You've got nothing I want or need bad enough to betray my boss or my country."

"I was afraid you were going to say that, Ms. Sands." He tilted his head again. "And I suppose if we threatened to deprive you of your life, your answer would be the same."

"I didn't suppose you planned on letting me leave here alive if I refused your generous offer," I answered matter-of-factly.

"You would willingly surrender your life even though you would surely live a rich one if you came over to our side," Rask said.

"I guess that means they'll have to put 'Martyr' on my gravestone."

"I'm sorry to inform you, there'll be no marker. It will be an unmarked grave. By the time you're found -- if at all -- the wildlife of the area will have taken care of erasing your identity."

What a lovely thought."

"It's not personal, Ms. Sands."

"It never is. Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. I don't suppose it does." He pressed a button on an intercom on the endtable. "Gentlemen, please come back in here." The two tanks that had brought me to this man now reappeared. "Ms. Sands has decided to reject our job offer. Standard procedure, please."

OK, calm, I told myself, as they walked me back out the door and down the hall. I wasn't blindfolded this time. Or cuffed. No need, I realized. For all intents and purposes, I was a walking dead woman. I was on their turf. They wouldn't shoot me here and make a mess. It was simply more expedient to get to my gravesite and shoot me there, rather than to drag dead weight out of an underground hideaway. The security points we'd gone through had watchmen in medium tan security uniforms with TV surveillance and electronic pass card equipment manning the stations. My body was coiled, ready to spring, but my life depended on my calm, now. If there was any way in hell to get out of this mess and away from my captors, I had to be calm. The ride in the lift was silent and foreboding. Cooler air hit as we crested a rough-hewn open door and I was nudged out into a cabin -- the cabin I had perceived us walking into earlier. There were a few scattered chairs and a table, and two more uniformed security sitting at the table playing cards. They scarcely looked up when we walked through to the outside door.

I remembered the many trips my father and I had taken into the woods. I'd been young -- a neophyte. My dad had taken me in hand and impressed upon me a piece of knowledge that I had kept tucked away inside me for years, yet near enough to the surface to pull out. I could hear him repeat it.

//Rachel, the one thing you must remember, whether you're camping or working or playing -- in your relationship with others or in your relationship with yourself -- everything you need to know is already within you. Life is the only real teacher. There will be people you will meet in your life who will pull those answers already within you out -- for you to examine and use. It will help you see the world clearly. Your intuition is something you should always listen to. You can read books and glean accepted knowledge from professors and they might even be right in their teachings. But if you listen to the wisdom within you -- you will become a teacher yourself. Your self-discovery of this knowledge will be the wisdom already there.//

He'd taught me to reach with my senses beyond what was considered normal and to use that sixth sense so few of us even acknowledge. I didn't use it often, either. I'd never had the need much. But now, in this dangerous situation, I was reaching outward with all five senses and then my sixth. The cool night air hit my face as we went outside and I noted that the wind had changed direction. The night sounds surrounded me, enfolded me and my feet seemed not to touch the ground as I walked toward the waiting sedan. It was ridiculous to feel such a calm at this moment. Yet I did. It was almost like being outside of your body.

A leathery flapping was heard in the darkened air and I felt a soft whish beside my ear. I knew immediately it was a bat and then I heard a 'SHEE-ITT!' from one of the men beside me. I was next aware of a blanket of wings surrounding us. The two men were fighting the small creatures off with shouts and curses and my instincts suddenly floored themselves into overdrive. I ran swiftly into the woods, still feeling the small bodies brushing against me, but never hitting or lighting upon me. I looked over my shoulder once at my would-be captors only to see them partly on the ground and the other two men from the cabin running out to see what the commotion was and becoming just as inundated with the furry night creatures as their cohorts.

I don't know how long I ran, but when I stopped, it felt like I had a knife in my ribs. The logical thing to do would be to find a road. But glancing around, I found myself hell and gone one. The trees were broad and tall in this area -- old pines, weather-worn and pungent in the fall air. It was difficult to assess which direction I was even going. I took a deep breath, looking upwards again at the pine trees. The night was full of stars -- I could see them, thick as stew, between the branches. Carefully I scrutinized the tops of the pines. After a moment, I was pretty sure which direction I should go.

The tops of pine trees generally lean towards the rising sun. I wanted to go west, so I would take off in the opposite direction, assuming my assessment was correct -- at least until I could find a clearing somewhere that could afford me a better look at the sky and make the determination by constellations. My father's wealth of survival knowledge was something I treasured. I traveled on, having no sense of time, knowing only that I had to put distance between myself and my captors. But the effects of the tranquilizer were still in me and I knew I'd have to rest soon.

I slapped at the back of my neck, wriggling my shoulders at a sharp scratch. Great. All I wanted was to find creepy-crawlies in my clothes. I found myself in a valley between two mountains and loped well into it. After awhile, the offending scratching at the back of my neck irritated me to the point where I took my jacket off. There was a waning moon that was still mostly full and I saw something stiff sticking out of my jacket's neckline. Frowning, I pulled it and it ripped my lining partway.

"What the hell . . . ?" I pulled it some more and it ripped more of the lining. A round circle with a flashing light finally pulled through. Though I'd never seen one, I knew what it was.

It was a goddamn tracking device. Even though I escaped my kidnappers, they were still probably able to track me. Angrily, I ripped it out, taking most of the lining with it, then crushed it beneath my heel. I made a cursory examination of the waistband and hem of my jeans. Satisfied that it was probably the only device that had been put on me -- probably while I was swimming earlier that evening -- I pulled an old Indian trick just to be on the safe side.

Rubbing my hands, I grabbed hold of a low-slung branch on one of the trees and hoisted myself up into one of the tall pines. Being small and light had its advantages. I scuttled from tree to tree, without benefit of vines, using the branches as stepping-stones to the next tree. My captors would have no idea which direction I would have gone after climbing the one tree, even with hounds. I could get far enough ahead of them. They would expect me to take the easy way through the valley. I was going to mess them up and head north, turning west only after I was satisfied I'd put enough distance between them and me.

My quiet, slow progress lasted the better part of a couple of hours. By this time, I was simply too tired to go any further. I dropped down from the branches and jogged for about another half hour, putting behind me about another three miles.

By the moon rays, I found an animal trail and followed it. Another five minutes found me at a mountain-fed spring. At the shoreline, I lay flat, drinking the clear water. I looked around, contemplating the rocky cliffs around me. It was probably about 45 to 50 degrees outside. I had decently warm clothes on, though I wished I'd had gloves. I could sleep out in the open overnight. My eyes scanned the area and after a few moments, thought, I chose a big pine tree with a sheltering base, walking into it and slicing off the soft bottom boughs. I went to neighboring trees and did the same, piling them up in my little niche. Then, with the aid of a stick, I dug out an indentation in the dirt, big enough to fit my body. I lined it with some of the pine branches, then lay down in it, pulling the rest over me. It was a perfect place to rest for a few hours. When daylight broke, I would figure out what to do then. But right then, my weary brain needed rest.

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

When I awoke the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. I cursed myself for sleeping so deeply -- I should have been up hours ago, at the first tweak of sunlight. Cautiously I got to my feet, looking around. Satisfied no other living person was anywhere near, I retreated about fifty yards away to take care of the characteristic morning ablutions, then returned, again looking around cautiously. I drank some of the pristine water and listened as my stomach rumbled. I needed to eat to keep my strength up. OK. Food was the next order of business.

It was a cardinal rule that my father taught me. If you always have a knife of some description and a lighter, you can get by in almost any outdoors situation. From the time I was seven years old, I almost always had them on my person. If I'd been camping, I would have carried a hunting knife with a serrated blade. As I hadn't been prepared for this impromptu trip, I still carried a jackknife in my moccasin. If I'd been thinking, I might have gotten away from my captors earlier using it as a weapon. But I didn't think the odds were too good when they had .357's.

I found a good solid stick on the ground and began sharpening it on one end, fashioning a barb near the tip. To harden it I pulled out my lighter and put it over the heat for a few minutes. Twigs and leaves were plentiful in the fall and I made a small campfire, surrounded by rocks, found a couple of forked branches that could be shoved into the ground on either side of the flames and then sharpened another stick on both ends to lay across the crotches.

Catching fish was one of the easiest things to do in the wild. There were a lot of different ways to do it, but I liked this method. It was clean and simple, especially when all you needed was one or two fish. Night fishing this way could be especially profitable, but I wasn't in the market for a lot of food. Just enough to keep me from starving at the moment. I shucked off my moccasins and rolled up my jeans, wading in the shallow water with the end of my spear going through the water. The water was pretty cold, and I knew I couldn't stand to stay in it long, but with any luck I wouldn't have to.

The speckled trout was just ahead of me. Slowly I followed with my spear still in the water, coming to just within inches of the fish. Then, with a quick jab, it was over, and the flailing fish was impaled. Wading back to shore, I sat down near the fire, setting to work gutting the creature and then weaving it over the cross-piece of my open oven to cook. My fire was small because in case I was being followed or my captors were still after me, I didn't want to attract attention. It was as if my wilderness instincts had kicked in automatically. Actually, if I'd really been cautious, I would have eaten the fish raw, but I just really couldn't bring myself to do that.

It tasted good. It took me only five minutes to plow through the fish and my hunger was satisfied. Then I began to erase signs of my camp, tossing the rocks in random directions, dousing the fire and scattering ashes, breaking the sticks I'd used for my makeshift oven. After donning my moccasins once more, I set off again.

I don't know how far I walked. The sun was halfway down to the horizon between two mountains when I came upon a lake, still as glass. It was a quiet spot. Lovely and primal. And then a sigh of relief broke from my lips.

There was a cabin on the other side. Smoke was coming out of the chimney.

Oh, God, did that ever look inviting.

Obviously, someone was home. I tried to find evidence of a road and couldn't. Taking a deep breath, I plunged through the growth and half-jogged to the cabin on the other side of the lake. Before I even came within ten yards of the steps leading up to the porch, the door burst open and a man stood there with a blue tick hound at his side. There was a Smith and Wesson in his hand. I stopped abruptly, putting up my hands.

"Hey, no problem," I said evenly. "I was hoping you might have a phone?"

The man looked like he might have been in his mid- to late twenties. Good-looking and rugged, lean and muscular with sun-streaked hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked at me a moment more, then put the safety back on his gun.

"You lost?" he asked almost sullenly.

I licked dry lips. "In a manner of speaking."

He looked down at his dog. "It's OK," he told the animal, and he turned around and went back into the cabin. He looked back at me. "So. You gonna come in or stay out here?"

"Just waiting for an invitation."

"Consider yourself invited."

"Thank you." I mounted the steps, and followed him inside. The interior was gorgeous. Rustic, with a loft off to one side and a warm fire in the living section. There was a cello over in one corner, Mozart sounding from the stereo system in another. The room was filled with artwork -- I recognized some of them -- Van Goghs, Renoirs . . . the most beautiful reproductions I'd ever seen. What I didn't see was a television or a phone. The stereo, I guessed, ran on a battery of some kind, or a generator. He had a modern kitchen with all the latest, so I assumed I was right about the generators. And the paintings were spotlighted with muted wall lights, another indicator.

"Name's Rachel," I introduced myself as I stared at the beautiful surroundings. "Rachel Sands."

The man went back behind the bar. "You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet." He got a wineglass down. "Something to drink?"

"You got something stronger than wine?" I walked up to the bar and leaned against it.

"Fully stocked. What's your pleasure?"

"Cuervo Gold?"

He reached behind him for a bottle and poured some in a tumbler for me. "There you go."

"Thanks."

I downed the entire Tequila and instead of asking, the young man poured me another couple of fingers-worth. "You OK? You hurt or anything?"

"Nah. Just a little frazzled." I took a sip of my second drink. "Didn't get your name."

"I didn't give it to you."

I looked at him a little oddly. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He held out his hand. "Stringfellow Hawke. Call me Hawke." He looked me over. "What'd you do, spend the night alone in the woods?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact. I look that bad?"

"Nothing a soak in a hot tub of water couldn't cure." He indicated a radio over in the corner. "I can call somebody to fly you out of here by tomorrow morning. Got a friend who owns an airfield in Van Nuys."

"God, you're a lifesaver, thank you," I said gratefully.

He shrugged. "No big deal." He indicated the bathroom. "You can have a long hot soak after your finished with your drink. I'll get you a robe to put on. You can even wash your clothes if you want, I've got a small washer I can hook up to the sink."

"Thanks," I said again, settling on the corner of the sofa he indicated.

He sat on the opposite end with a glass of white wine, watching me intently. Finally, after a long moment, he finally asked. "So what happened?"

I smiled without hesitation. "Got separated from my party."

"Got yourself lost."

"Only temporarily."

"You couldn't have known that. There's one little town about twelve miles away on the other side of the mountains in back of me -- no more than a hole in the road. But it's harder than hell to access it from this way. You weren't taking the well-worn trails, or even the washed-out ones." His eyes narrowed. "I don't believe for a minute you don't know your way around the woods. Somebody after you?"

"You gonna kick me out if I tell you yes?"

"Nope. But it would help if I knew who you were dealing with."

Right. And I was going to tell this mountain man I was being pursued by foreign agents who couldn't successfully turn me against my country or my boss and were trying to kill me.

"Look, maybe this was a bad idea," I said, suddenly sitting up straight. "Maybe I should just finish this drink and get the hell out. You don't need my headaches."

Hawke shook his head. "You don't have to leave. I can defend us well enough here. Provided there's not an army after you." He tilted his head. "You smell like government issue. FBI?"

"No."

"Oh, man. CIA. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Uhm . . ."

"Shit. Shit!" Hawke half-shouted, getting up in disgust and pacing the floor.

I sat there stunned, not knowing what to do. I finally finished the drink and stood up. "I'm going." I started for the door.

"Geez . . . come back here."

I turned. "Twelve miles? Right between those mountains? Easy trek?"

"Pretty easy. You're not leaving?"

"It sounds like it would be best if I did. I can make it in four to six hours at a fast walk. Probably closer to five."

"You'll never make it before dark. Believe me, you don't want to go stumbling around up here at night." He indicated the bathroom. "Go wash up. I'll start dinner after I radio Dom to come up here tomorrow morning to pick you up."

"That your friend from Van Nuys?"

He nodded. "Yeah. There's clean towels in the closet. Use anything you need, shampoo, whatever."

"Thanks."

Five minutes later, my aching muscles relaxed in the steamy water. I scrubbed the dirt and grime off of me and washed my hair, then relaxed in the still warm water. I wondered why my belonging to the CIA had provoked such a strong reaction from my host and then grimaced. I wondered if he was an extremist -- the type who was sure that the government was taking over everything piece by piece, including individual rights. And maybe, I thought, he had a right to feel that way. It sure seemed that government was getting more and more involved in stuff they shouldn't be. I got out of the tub and began to dry myself off when I realized that I'd forgotten to take Hawke's proffered robe, and that it was lying on the sofa.

I opened the bathroom door a crack. "Hawke?" I called out. I got no answer.

"Hawke? I called a little more loudly. Still no answer. He probably went outside for something.

Grabbing the towel tightly, I walked out into the living area, spying the robe. I had just laid my hand on it when I heard chopper blades in the distance. I swallowed. Damn! I had visions of those foreign agents in the dark suits after me again. I hid behind the bar, hastily donning the robe. My eyes caught a sleek automatic laying on a shelf below in the bar and my hand went for it, just as the door to the cabin came open.

"Hawke?" a male voice called.

I frowned. No way. It couldn't be.

I barely peered over the top of the bar and then almost had a cardiac arrest.

Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, along with Marella, stood inside the door. I breathed a sigh of relief, then immediately began to wonder how Michael knew this Stringfellow Hawke. And how did Michael know to come here for me?

A coldness washed over me.

Unless he'd been the one behind it to begin with.

"Stringfellow Hawke!" he said called imperiously once more.

Clasping the gun securely in my hand, I stood up from behind the bar. "He went for a walk."

Michael stared, astounded. "Rachel!"

OK. Either he was a damn good actor, which I knew he was, or he really was genuinely surprised.

"The one and only." I met his gaze unflinchingly.

Marella stared, open-mouthed. "Oh, my God! Rachel, you're supposed to be . . ."

Michael nudged her rudely in the side and turned his attention back on me, approaching the bar slowly.

"You're a long way from home," he commented.

"Yeah, and I've got foreign agents on my ass ready to take a bite out of it," I replied dryly.

Michael's nostrils flared. "Foreign agents."

"Seems they wanted me to share pillow talk with you and then share it with them for a whole lot of money," I continued, watching him carefully. He was a master. His face gave absolutely nothing away. But his pupils became large as I watched him and he watched me.

"You got away from them, evidently," he said in a low, even tone.

"After I told them to shove it," I confirmed.

I caught the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I'm impressed," he said quietly.

It was then that I somehow knew. I don't know how, but I did.

"You set this up, you bastard," I accused angrily.

Hawke came through the door, looking none too pleased. He removed his sunglasses and glared at the two white-clad agents. "I don't recall inviting you two up here," he growled, then shifted his attention to me. "Rachel, you work for him?"

I nodded. "Yeah. How do you know him?"

He shook his head. "We go back to 'Nam. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. But take my advice, Rachel. Get out now, while you still can."

"Funny. That's exactly what Michael told me in the very beginning," I replied. My temper was flaring and I was frankly surprised at my control. "This was a test, wasn't it?" I asked Michael, rounding the bar and leaving the gun on the top of the counter. "You set me up. This was your doing."

"I had no idea you were here. However, I will admit that I set you up. I decided your training could be accelerated, so I had you kidnapped and put in a tight situation to see if you could get yourself out."

"Did I pass?" My voice dripped venom.

"With flying colors," he replied. "When we're done with business here, you can come back to Knightsbridge with us."

"Excuse me if I say 'fuck you.'" I could feel my eyes blaze and I pulled the robe tightly about me. "I'll hike into town and find my own way back."

"It's getting dark," Hawke said, finally shutting the door. "You aren't gonna wander around here in the dark."

"I'm sure as hell not going back with THEM." I tossed my head arrogantly.

"Of course you are," Michael contradicted smoothly. "I need to have you debriefed."

I was so mad I could have screamed. But I held my tongue. Hawke watched the exchange intently, trying to figure it out. I turned away, damned if I was going to give away any more clues. My clothes were in the washer in the kitchen so I couldn't just take off.

"Well," I said quietly, "since it seems to be coincidence that you're up here and it's obviously business you want to discuss with Mr. Hawke, is there somewhere out of earshot where I can plant myself? I'm not going outside in just a robe in this weather."

"Why don't you go on up to the loft?" Hawke advised almost kindly. "There's a big feather bed up there. Make yourself comfortable, you look tired."

"Thanks," I acknowledged. "You're a very gracious host, Mr. Hawke. I owe you one."

"I'll collect it," he promised, then actually gave me a smile.

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

It was almost Thanksgiving and I was still furious with Michael. I wasn't even sure why. What had happened to me had been part of the job, so why was I having such a hard time with it? Why did I feel so violated? Then I realized what it was. It was the control thing. It was one thing to follow orders, knowing more or less what the results of following those orders would bring. It was something else entirely to have no control of a situation that is thrust upon you. Michael had been more or less in control, pulling the strings of my kidnap situation. That pissed me off.

But I got over it. The problem was, I didn't get over it soon enough.

Michael and I went out on a couple of dates after that, but I was still smarting from the whole situation and I guess I was kind of glum and preoccupied and not very fun. It was by chance I happened to overhear Michael tell Lillian about three days before Thanksgiving he was attending the symphony that evening with Melissa Hiatt, would she please see to it that credit was given. Stunned, Lillian had nodded with a 'Yes, Sir' that bordered on incredulity. She glanced up at me where I stood at the file cabinet putting some reports away I'd been using for my temporary position in Research, and Michael followed her gaze. Our eyes met for a long moment, then I shut the drawer, choosing to turn away first, my face a virtual mask though I knew my jaw had flexed with the effort of control. Hearing him say that he had chosen Melissa Hiatt over his so-called permanent escort hurt me. Granted I hadn't been exactly fun the last couple of times, but he could have asked me why instead of doing something like this. It felt like my heart was being ripped out.

Later on, Lillian came up to me at my desk in research.
"I think it's time for a break," she said firmly, in a voice that broached no argument.

Why was it that Lillian could sometimes make you feel like a little girl about to be reprimanded? I pondered as I followed her down to the break room. It felt like a lot of eyes were on me. One minute the boss' favorite, the next fallen from grace.

"Explain this to me," Lillian said to me. "Did you and Michael have a fight?"

"Not that I'm aware of." I sighed as we slid into a table near the window with our respective café au laits. "Maybe I just wasn't perky enough for him." I scowled suddenly, taking a large sip.

"Michael thinks the world of you. Something happened," Lillian insisted.

"Like I said. I haven't exactly been a fun date lately. He probably sick of me."

"That's not it. The boss has his eye on you all the time, and not only because of work. It's not like him to try and make a woman jealous unless he thinks he's got good reason -- have you been seeing someone else?"

"No!" I protested strongly. "I haven't been dating anyone but Mi-- . . ." I stopped abruptly. "Oh, God. I just tumbled."

"What?" the other woman urged.

"You know when I was kidnapped -- for the training test a little while back?" I asked.

Lillian nodded. "Yeah, surprised me, too. Michael's never accelerated an operative's training that fast."

"Well, when I was finding my way out of the woods . . ." I explained everything to Lillian quickly.

"But it doesn't make sense," Lillian disputed.

"Wait, you haven't heard it all yet," I told her. "This Stringfellow Hawke works at an airfield in Van Nuys. He sent me flowers three times last week, showed up twice this week in the lobby to ask me to dinner and . . ."

"Oh, my God. I thought those flowers were from Michael. You went out with him?"

"As a courtesy. The man literally took me in from the cold, Lillian." I had to smile. "He's charming in a rough way. Not smooth like Michael. But I like him. He's nice-looking, too."

"And it never occurred to you that Michael wouldn't catch on?" Lillian shook her head. "Rachel, let me tell you something. I don't know how good it would be to hitch up with either Michael OR Stringfellow Hawke, from what I know of both of them. But I know this -- you can't play with Michael's feelings and get away with it."

"Why not? He plays with everyone else."

"Yeah, but don't forget. He's God in this division."

"But Lillian -- I wasn't trying to hurt him. It never even occurred to me that he would even notice . . . much less be jealous. Hawke and I are friends."

"Yeah. But does he know that? More important, does Michael know that?"

"Why doesn't he just ASK me?" I was bewildered.

"Because the Boss doesn't work that way. The minute he senses a betrayal, he strikes back in the way he knows will hurt the most, even if he doesn't know the whole story. Like in this case. He knew that it would get under your skin the most if Melissa was his escort and you knew about it."

"But this is gradeschool crap!"

"Yeah, pretty much."

I frowned for a long time, thinking.

"Hey, break's almost over. What are you going to do about this situation?" Lillian countered curiously. "I see one of two ways."

I arched my eyebrows. "Oh, really? And they are?"

She shrugged. "Well, you could be open and honest with him about the situation after he gets himself home -- in other words, you could get yourself inside the penthouse suite after the symphony and wait for him there. I mean, I could just sort of . . . turn around . . . and pretend I didn't see you filch the extra passkey I keep in my center drawer that I USUALLY lock . . ."

"That could present interesting options. What's the other idea?"

"You could fight fire with fire. Show up at the symphony with an incredibly good-looking man -- maybe even your Stringfellow Hawke -- and make sure Michael sees you. I guarantee it'll make more than an impression."

"Yeah. I could be looking at the want ads tomorrow."

Lillian shook her head. "Nope. Michael won't do that. But I'll tell you this. If Michael has any serious intentions toward you at all, and from all indications, it seems that he does, then I will bet next month's salary you'll hear about it tonight."

"I don't like playing these games, Lillian."

"Well, Michael does. And if you play against him well enough, you might just help yourself right into the Boss' heart for good. He's doing this to challenge you, Rachel. He's already set up the chess board. Start playing the game."

"I won't do that to Stringfellow," I said strongly. "I won't use him for this game. Someone else . . . someone who knows the score and who'll play along."

We suddenly looked at each other and said in unison, "Vincent McComb."

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

Pulling the plan together in one afternoon was not easy, but I got it done. I took the rest of the afternoon off. Lillian pulled off a miracle and managed to get me a couple of balcony seat tickets right across from where Michael and Melissa would be sitting. Vincent was agreeable to the ploy and even looking forward to it as long as it didn't get him fired. All that was left for me to do was hit Rodeo Drive and find the most stunning cut-away gown I could find. I finally settled on a plunging Versace gown that was half not-there. The damn thing cost me four figures, I couldn't believe I was actually doing this. But if I was going to show up Melissa Hiatt in the eyes of the press, I had to be sure there would be no doubt who was the better dressed. We did nothing half-assed. Vince and I were going to arrive in a black limousine with the paparazzi shooting away.

Lillian had a whole network at her disposal at the Firm. She could ask a question and get an answer in record time. Via the limousine phone, we found out exactly where Michael's limo was and had our driver slip in directly behind them. Michael, suave man that he was, would make sure that the press would get a good shot of him and his escort. I was going to make damn sure that we "accidently" bumped into them on the way in. I knew Beatrice Weiss, Michael's Hollywood Insider reporter friend, would be given a choice spot near the doors with the TV cameras rolling.

"I owe you a big one, Vince," I told my escort as we rolled in just behind Michael.

"Hey, you owe me nothing," he replied goodnaturedly. "I've wanted to go out with you for a long time."

I stared at him. "You have?"

"Yeah. But I knew you were with the Boss and that it was more than friends. Or at least that was what everyone said."

That flustered me. "Then if you know . . . why are you playing along with this?"

He shrugged with a grin. "Call me a romantic. To further the cause of love. There. How's that?"

I watched as Melissa and Michael stepped out of the white limo, she in a slinky gown of white -- reminiscent of a Christian Dior, I thought. It was pretty. It was all the vogue. But I knew Melissa always bought the knock-offs, and she had a lot of them. The grapevine could be useful when you had need of it. My gown was the real deal and daring to a fault.

"Get ready," Vince told me as our limo rolled up.

It almost felt like being at the Oscars. I knew that this little prance up to the Chandler Pavilion was nothing compared to that. But it felt like it. And it felt good. I heard the "oohs" and "aahs" coming from the sidelines and Vince and I made our way up the steps close behind Michael and Melissa.

Melissa preened and Vince laughed, saying softly, "She thinks they're making a fuss over her."

"What makes you think they're not?" I queried.

"Oh, come on!" Vince said, exasperated. "You have to be blind not to see it!"

"Who IS that woman?" "Wasn't she with the Deputy Director just a week ago?" "She's the Mystery Woman!" "Pretty lady, look over here!"

Melissa turned at that last one, but the photographer waved her off.

"Nah, not you! The gorgeous babe behind you!"

Gorgeous? Babe? Me???

Melissa turned around curiously, still clutching Michael's arm, then glowered. Michael turned too, just as Bea sidled up with her microphone.

"What are you two doing here?" Michael questioned evenly, clearly surprised but holding anything he was feeling in check.

"We're here to see the symphony, Michael," I replied calmly.

"Michael, darling!" Beatrice called, waving her microphone playfully. "Here you are with that lovely young lady again!" she directed to me.

I smiled warmly. "Good to see you, Bea! But . . . I'm afraid you're mistaken. I'm not with Michael tonight."

The woman was taken aback. "Oh, my dear . . . more's the pity! And who's this lovely young man, Rachel?"

"Oh . . . Michael's younger brother!" I replied helpfully and I could hear Melissa gasp at my side and Michael breathe in hard at that one. "He just flew in last week to visit and we've been in love ever since, isn't that right, pookie-pie?" Michael DID have a younger brother, but I knew he was with a diplomatic corp over in Europe.

Vince was trying so hard not to laugh. "That's right, diddums," he answered, eyes crinkling as he placed a kiss on my cheek. "Don't you think we better go in?"

"Sure, darling," I replied, all smiled. "But I just want to say for the record, Bea -- if it hadn't been for Michael, why, we wouldn't be here like this tonight!" I smiled at Michael sweetly. "Ciao, Beatrice!"

"Ciao, darlings!" we heard her say as we moved past the other two and into the theater. Vince exploded into laughter when we got inside. Some heads turned in our direction questioningly, and then I was laughing, too.

"He's going to KILL us," Vince told me as we made our way up the stairs to our balcony seats.

"If he kills anyone, it'll be me," I said. "He knows you're a sucker for a pretty face."

"He's right. I am."

I looked over at Vincent -- oh, that face so much like Michael's own -- and then wondered what would have happened if I'd met Vincent McComb before Michael Coldsmith-Briggs.

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

Vince and I did a marvelous job of appearing to be swept up with the music. He played his role well, touching my bare shoulder, whispering softly and intimately in my ear, one arm protectively about my waist most of the night. Once or twice I even dared to steal a glance across to Michael's balcony and though Melissa appeared to be enthralled, Michael was stoic and once I swear he stared daggers at us. Good, I thought to myself. Let him stew about his little plot backfiring.

During intermission, we went downstairs for the complimentary glasses of champagne and saw Michael and Melissa together in a rather intimate pose. Vince took the cue and pulled me into a similar one. We entwined arms and sipped on our champagne. I wondered if or when Michael would come over to us and say something, but I needn't have worried. He didn't, Melissa didn't, and the rest of the evening was all quite normal -- so normal in fact, it was disappointing. Then I began to wonder if I blew it.

Vince was trying to tell me otherwise as we left amidst a few remaining photographers, and just as I was about ready to shelve any idea of ever becoming close to Michael again, we heard his voice behind us.

"Vincent. Rachel." We turned as we hit the street and Michael and Rachel caught up to us. "We were thinking about going to The Rock Club. Care to join us?"

"The new disco on Sunset?" Vince asked. "What do you say, Rach?"

"I don't know," I answered, "do you disco?"

"There's not a move I don't know," Vince bragged, winking. "C'mon! It could be fun!"

"Only if I have time enough to stop at my apartment and change," I said. "I want to dance, and I can't do it in this."

"We'll go ahead and hold a table," Michael said. "When you get there, just verify that I left word that you were to be let in. You won't run into any trouble."

Within an hour, we were at the club and the bouncer was letting Vince and me in ahead of a line that was backed up halfway down the block. The place was awesome -- MacArthur Park was blaring from the speakers, colored lights hurricaned about . . . the dance floor was huge!

"I'll go up on the balcony and see if I can find them!" Vince said.

I nodded, watching the dancers, mesmerized. Even when I look back on it all now, years later, I could still feel the beat, the controlled, yet frenzied pace that went all through me that night. Dancing was a kind of intense foreplay . . . a mating dance for human beings. I don't know how long I stared at the bodies undulating amidst the pulsing lights and rhythm, but I felt Vince grab my arm and direct me through the crowd until we were at Michael's table.

Michael's eyes assessed my change of clothes -- a tea-length black silk with a lacy dropped neck, backless, with spaghetti straps. I wore three-and-a-half inch spike heels and my jewelry was silver-accented onyx.

"Lovely as always, Ms. Sands," Michael complimented me. He signaled the waitress. "Drink orders?"

I ordered a Tequila Sunrise, Vince a Tom Collins. After making small talk, during which Melissa was studiously quiet, Vince finally got up.

"We came here to dance," he reminded me with a twinkle. "So let's dance!"

After five months it was all coming back to me and pretty soon, Vince and I were tearing up the floor with The Hustle and the Bus Stop and then went on to our partnered dancing. Michael watched from the sideline as Melissa scowled. It was just too much fun. The music slowed and I felt a jolt from behind. Michael was standing there, one hand slipped around my waist.

"You don't mind if I borrow your partner for awhile, do you?" he asked Vincent smoothly.

Vince grinned. "Of course not, Boss. Have fun."

"I plan to."

I turned in Michael's grip just as More Than A Woman started playing. I stole a look over at our table and Melissa sat there staring at me with open loathing as Vince was undoubtedly trying to lighten the atmosphere with some jokes.

"Pay attention, Ms. Sands, or you won't be able to follow my lead." My eyes riveted on Michael's. The look in them was unfathomable.

Michael surprised me. I'd hardly thought he would know how to disco, but here he was, the smoothest man on the dance floor. He took me through loops and turns and twirls . . . when the song faded at the end, he had me in a grip so tight I could barely breathe and I remembered all over again how the man could excite me without half-trying. He deliberately placed his mouth against my ear.

"I want you. Tonight."

Stunned, I leaned back to stare at him, not even sure I heard right.

"Did you hear me, Rachel?"

Licking dry lips, I nodded slowly.

"Do you want me?" he persisted.

How could he ask me that? "You know I do."

"Take Vince home and then go home yourself. I'll meet you there."

"At my place?"

"At your place."

"I'll leave the front door open."

"See that you do."

He slipped smoothly from my arms and returned to the table, smiling charmingly at Melissa as he indicated that they were leaving.

"Have a good weekend," Michael said, before parting.

We watched them leave.

"Feel like dancing some more?" Vince asked, enthusiastically.

I shook my head vigorously. "Think I'll call it a night."

"You care if I stay?"

I smiled warmly at him. "Not a bit. In fact, the limo's paid for through the wee hours. Tip, too. So just go ahead and take it home. I'll catch a cab."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." I shouldered my purse.

"Hey, Rach." He took my hand and I looked over at him. "You score with the Boss?"

Freaking field goal, Vince," I answered affirmatively. "Now all I have to do is make sure I make the extra point."

He smiled a little sadly. "My loss. Go get 'im, Rachel."

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

It was going to be tight, but I was determined to have the stage set when Michael walked in my door. I had a stereo system set up in both my bedroom as well as the living room. I felt like a seductress that night -- like Cleopatra about to conquer Marc Antony. So I put my album with the same soundtrack on continuous play on the second side, where the Love Theme was. I filled my ice bucket with ice and placed a bottle of Dom Perignon in it, wheeling it into the bedroom, then peeled off my $8,000-plus dress and threw it just inside my closet. I remade my face up more subtly after scrubbing off the night make-up, put on fresh perfume and then slipped on a daring, long red silk nightgown with black accents and lace. My slippers were red with two-inch heels. Everything was ready -- my door was open, and I lay back seductively on the bed, waiting.

I must have dozed because my next awareness was of something soft and velvety grazing my cheek. I turned my head, eyes still closed, my nose plunging into a delicate, sweet perfume. With a sigh, I opened my eyes. A blood-red rose was next to me on my pillow and I lifted my head, then my eyes. Michael was sitting across from me in a chair, watching me intently.

A smile found it's way onto my lips. "How long have you been sitting there?" I asked a little sleepily.

His smile matched mine. "About half an hour. I like watching you sleep."

"Why?" I turned on my side, dark hair cascading down as I rested my head in my hand.

"Because I hope your sleep will be that restful in my arms after we make love," he answered.

Oh, God, trust Michael to say precisely the right thing at exactly the right time. His sexy voice careened right through me, reverberated up and down my body and then faded like a memory with the promise of more to come. I licked my lips that had suddenly become dry. We stared at each other for almost a full minute. Finally I had to break the silence.

"I thought you wanted me," I said softly.

"I do," came his quiet reply.

"Then . . . why are you still over there when I'm over here?"

He leaned forward in the chair, hands dangling between his knees. "I'm waiting for an invitation to your bed."

I stared at him. How much more invitation did he need? "Uhm . . . I left my door open for you, Michael."

"I just wanted to be certain this was what you wanted."

This time, I rose from the bed, the shimmering red nightgown barely touching the floor as I walked over and stood before him. "Michael . . ." I hesitated, then plunged ahead. "The walls of this apartment has never admitted any man but you since I've been here. These satin sheets have never had a man in them. This nightgown I'm wearing has never been worn for anyone else. And I don't chill a bottle of Dom Perignon for just anybody."

He looked up at me for a long time. "I hurt you tonight. I'm sorry for that. Forgive me."

"I guess I gave you cause to suspect something, no matter how unfounded it was," I admitted quietly. "Stringfellow Hawke is a friend. Nothing more, nothing less, and I don't say that lightly. I'd like to get to know him better, but on a platonic level. He could never mean to me what you do." His jaw was working and I gave him my hands. "Come to bed, Michael," I half-whispered.

He rose suddenly, crushing me against him, mouth crashing down upon mine. This sudden urgency was overwhelming and fear knifed through me. I stiffened suddenly and pulled away.

Dazed, Michael looked down on me. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Speechless, I gazed up at him. "I . . ." I was at a loss.

A frown began to gather on his brow. "Rachel, I was under the impression you wanted me. I thought . . ." He suddenly stopped and his whole face changed. "Oh, my God. Rachel. I'm so sorry." He pulled my head against his shoulder and stroked my hair. "My beautiful lady. I didn't mean to be a brute with you."

Though I hadn't thought it and he hadn't put it in words, his reference suddenly enlightened me about my pulling away. I hadn't been with a man since I'd been raped. I only had the good sense now to be scared to death.

"Let me make love to you," he whispered in my ear. "Let me show you how good it can be for you again -- for us this first time. Let me make this your fantasy, Rachel. It can be so good."

I bit my lip, squeezing my eyes shut against tears. "Make love to me," I answered in a quivering voice. "Make love to me -- make me believe that you truly love me."

"I do love you."
Oh, God, oh, God, I wanted to believe that.

"I do love you, Rachel." He leaned back, looking down into my eyes. "I'm not sure how smart it is, to fall in love with you or you with me. But it's happened and it's real and we're just going to have to deal with it." A smile found itself on his lips. "And it doesn't have to be a bad thing -- dealing with it."

I swallowed, unable to mask everything. "I won't lie to you, Michael. This frightens me."

"Falling in love or making love?"

"Both."

"Then let me be the brave one for us, at least for right now," he urged gently. "You trust me that this is the right thing right now."

I nodded almost meekly. "All right. I'll trust you."

His large hands cupped my face and he gazed into my eyes for a long moment. "You are so uncommonly beautiful."

The sincerity in his voice made me melt. I wanted to return the compliment but didn't now how, finding the English language somehow foreign. All I was aware of was this man surrounding me, going through me, washing over me . . . there were no words to fully describe what I felt at that moment. To this day I cannot describe it.

In the haze that followed, I was vaguely aware of articles of clothes being dropped to the floor in a careless pattern. I remember how my red nightgown snaked S-like over his discarded jacket and shirt. I remember the touch of his exceptionally warm hands on my body, sliding effortlessly over my skin. His sensual mouth sought out places on my neck and behind my ears to pleasure. The heat was rising to intolerable levels when my back touched the mattress. I returned his caresses with equal enthusiasm, my breath coming out in short bursts. A noise assaulted my ears, something I hadn't heard in a long time, and when it finally registered what it was, I couldn't help but be surprised and a little shocked. Michael was groaning softly against my skin, in my ear -- I could feel his hard length against the inside of my thigh, hot and quivering.

I heaved a breath. Yes, I was scared, probably moreso than I'd ever been. But I was also in love, and that outweighed any other thoughts I might have had. I knew Michael was no rapist, that he would never do anything to physically injure me. It was because I was so sure of that conviction that I shifted my position, lifting my hips.

I hate pagers. They upset and destroy the most intimate of moments and just as we were about to fulfill a fantasy, that's when Michael's pager chose to go off.

"Damn!" I heard him swear against my mouth. "It couldn't possibly wait for another lousy hour . . . damn it!"

He moved away from me, oh, so gloriously naked, picking up his discarded pants and fishing around for the offending piece of technology. He looked at it and then sighed, his turn-on very evident even in the shadows.

"Michael . . ." My voice was pleading. "Michael, please! Pretend it was off, pretend you lost it . . ."

"God, what I wouldn't give to be able to do that." He slid beside me on the bed. "Rachel, I want to stay. But I can't. And that's just part of being . . . part of my life."

"Am I in official escort capacity again, then?" I asked, half-pouting.
He smiled. "You are considerably more than that, my love." He kissed my forehead for a long moment. "I have to call in and then I'll have to leave. Can I call you this weekend?"

"Sure. If you can take time out of your busy schedule."

"Rachel . . ."

"Oh, go make your damn phone call. Then come back here and kiss me goodnight before you leave."

It would be a long time before we ever attempted making love again.

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

END PART III

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Susan Rossi, Webmistress
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March 24, 2000