SERAPH

Part 4

By Linda Ryner

Christmas was just two days away and everyone at Knightsbridge was in a festive mood despite the seriousness of the business we were in. I had been moved into investigative research -- the same department as Melissa -- and although I had little or no contact with her, she did everything possible to try and make life miserable for me. I say try because she was seldom more than an annoyance. Like the time she superglued my desk drawers shut and it took maintenance two days to pry them open without damaging the solid oak of my desk. Or the time she put Everclear in my coffee and it knocked me on my keister for the remainder of the day and made me sicker than a dog through the night. Of course I knew it was her, but I didn't report it. I figured one day, someone would eventually discover her antics and there'd be hell to pay.

Michael was in and out, occasionally asked me to dinner or to the opera or symphony and once in awhile to a movie. But when the evening ended, he would drop me off in front of my building. I always received a goodnight kiss -- some of them full of fire -- but he never followed me up to my condo after that night of aborted passion. I wondered what had changed. Finally, one evening, as we rode back in companionable silence in the limo, I decided to press the issue a bit.

"Come up for a nightcap," I cajoled gently. "You can send the limo home and I can take you in tomorrow."

His nostrils flared. "That's a tempting offer."

"So give in to temptation." I leaned in close, my eyes never leaving his, trailing a finger down his dimple line to his chin.

"I can't tonight, angel. I have a meeting with Special Projects first thing in the morning."

"Michael, even Deputy Directors take the mornings off sometimes," I told him pointedly.

"Not when it has to do with Special Projects." He took my hand in his and kissed my knuckles, then smiled. "Almost seven months have gone by. Most women would have given up by now trying to get me in the sack."

"Except for me and Melissa Hiatt," I said, grinning wickedly.

Michael laughed. "I was tempted that night at the symphony," he confessed, eyes gleaming. "She looked damn good." He winked. "The only thing was, you looked a hundred times better."

"Well. It's good to know you have such a superficial view about women."

He chuckled. "You might be surprised. I don't always go for the glamorous types."

So I slept alone that night, too, after I wrapped up the remainder of my presents to everyone and loaded them in my car. It was a policy of the company to hand out Christmas bonus checks every year -- it was usually a hefty seven percent of the annual net salary you received, which was quite a chunk of money any way you sliced it. That Christmas Eve, everyone was pleased with their bonus -- everyone but me. Why wasn't I satisfied? Because no bonus check was waiting for me.

I checked with accounting to make sure there had been no mistake. Accounting and payroll assured me there had been none. Orders had been given not to issue me one. Who's orders? I had asked.

Why, who else? Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, my boss.

What had I done? I was still trying to figure it out when I wandered back down to the main office. Everyone was having a good time getting a little tipsy, gorging themselves at the big table of goodies sent up from the cafeteria and dancing to the piped in music. Michael was having as good a time as anyone, drinking a glass of champagne and talking with Marella as he oversaw the happy faces around him. I caught his eyes once, managed a smile, then turned away and began chatting with Lillian.

Sometime later, a masculine presence at my elbow and a smooth voice made itself known to me.

"Let's blow this popstand," Michael intimated in my ear. "I've got a surprise for you."

I turned to look at him. "A surprise?"

He smiled charmingly. "Didn't you wonder why you didn't get a bonus check?" My eyebrows arched. "Well, that's because you've got something better. C'mon."

Under Melissa's murderous gaze, I left the office with Michael and we drove to my condo, where he directed the chauffeur to drive inside the parking garage. Each tenant had three parking spaces. My Pontiac was sitting in it's usual place as Michael had sent a limo for me that morning to do some personal running for him. Next to it was one of the most beautiful vehicles I'd ever laid eyes on, replete with a big red ribbon around it.

It was a gleaming red Jaguar XJ-S.

"Oh, my God," I gasped as I got out of the limo. My hands smoothed over the sleek lines. "Oh, God. Michael." I looked at him as he joined me. "This is too much."

"Au contraire," he argued. "This car was meant for you. You can't refuse it."

I was absolutely thunderstruck. How did Michael remember all this stuff? He placed the keys in my hand and closed it. "Now," he said softly, taking my other hand and drawing me close. "How would you like the rest of your Christmas present?"

"The rest . . . ?" I blurted. "Michael -- Michael, this car! There's more?"

"There's more." He indicated the elevator. "Let's go up to your condo."

Speechless, I watched as he waved the limo on. As we rode up to the seventh floor, I looked over at him.

"Michael -- you have God knows how many operatives," I told him in a low voice. "How is it you remembered this one piece of information about the kind of car I wanted if I wasn't so practical?"

He smiled secretly. "I remember just about everything you tell me, Rachel." We got to my door, and when I tried to open my door, my hand was shaking. Michael laughed softly and took it from me. "I think I've flustered you terribly."

The door opened and we walked inside. I automatically reached for the lightswitch on my left, but Michael pulled my hand down.

"You've put up your Christmas tree," he said softly. "The lights from it should be sufficient."

His eyes were unfathomable when I turned to look at him. I acquiesced, stooping to plug it into the socket. A soft haze of multi-colored lights emanated from my artificial tree. When I straightened, Michael was already behind me again, slipping my coat from my shoulders and opening the coat closet to hang it up.

"Something to drink, Michael?" I asked, smoothing the sleeves down on my silk blouse.

"Thank you, yes. A scotch, if you don't mind."

Two ice cubes, I remembered. And three fingers' worth. I poured myself a tumbler with no ice and about two-thirds as much as Michael's, then brought them over, seating myself beside him on the sofa.

He took the proffered tumbler, drinking deeply. Then, he turned toward me, reaching across and placing his drink on the endtable. He leaned his head against his hand, contemplating me for a long moment. I looked down, flushing a little under his scrutiny.

Finally, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer, I asked, "Well, do I unwrap it or are you just going to give it to me?" It took me a moment before the full import of my words hit me. Michael let out a huge laugh and I could have shriveled up and died. He pulled me into his chest and I could hear the laughter reverberate through his body. Suddenly, I started laughing, too.

"I will never accuse you of not speaking your mind," Michael chortled, leaning back, eyes dancing. "And actually -- it's not something you can unwrap. The first part, anyway." His hand went to my face and he stroked my dark hair back from my head. "I'm taking a trip after New Year's to Martinique. Partly work, mostly for pleasure. Will you go with me?"

Martinique! The name brought up visions of tropical paradise, endless sun and surf, romantic evenings . . .

"Oh, God, Michael. Yes, I'll go."

His face softened. "Good. Thank you." He stroked my hair again. "Now, as for the second part . . ." He leaned over, catching my mouth in a light, elusive kiss. "The second part requires some finesse at unwrapping . . ." His lips caught me behind the ear. " . . . and will definitely take the better part of the evening before you're tired of playing with it."

"If it's what I think it is," I whispered back, the heat rising in me, "I don't think I'll ever tire of playing."

"I like your optimism," he replied with a chuckle. "And I do hope you like contact sports."

"Any illegal moves I should know about?"

"Absolutely not. The rules of this game are pretty liberal. Wanna play?" He looked down at me and though his tone was playful, the fire in his eyes told me he was having a hard time being patient.

"Yes," I answered quietly. "Yes, I want to play."

How can I describe my first night as Michael's lover? It was magical. Intense. Everything I ever thought it would be and more. That night, a million thoughts crashed through my brain before, during and after making love.

I knew that I loved him, though on this night, no mention of it had been made by either of us. Though he'd said many things to me in the past months about easily falling in love with me, no reinforcement of that had been spoken of thus far. Would the magic end in the morning? I wondered. Would I suddenly be a mistress and convenience? Would morning cast it's stark light of reality on our world as if it had only been an erotic dream? A wind picked up outside and the moonlight streamed in from a waning crescent moon, I remember hearing it rake softly at the sliding glass window. I loosened his tie as he shrugged off his jacket and he was swift in unbuttoning his shirt. When my hands contacted the bare flesh of his chest, it was as if a bolt of lightning charged through my body. My hands smoothed over the skin, caressing the cords of his neck. Then he had me in his arms, mouth demanding responses from mine; rush after hot rush catapulted through me. His hold became tighter . . . almost suffocating. I heard the angry sound of a zipper being pulled down . . .

. . . . zzzzziiiippppp . . .

Anxious, large hand sliding up the insides of my thighs . . .

. . . nails scratching tender flesh and drawing blood . . .

A warm, demanding mouth pressing kisses over my eyes, my mouth, my cheeks--

. . . my head snapping back from someone yanking my hair and the pain of teeth on my throat and breasts . . .

I didn't even realize I'd screamed until Michael was staring down at me, his chest heaving. There was a wildness in his face I'd seen before and I turned my head away, hot tears stinging my eyes.

"Rachel . . . what . . . ?" He was at a loss and all I could do was turn my face into the back of the sofa and cry. Suddenly, I heard his sharp intake of breath and a soft, "Oh, my God." I felt so exposed and vulnerable and I couldn't have helped myself if my life depended on it. Gently, he brought me up, facing him, thumbs erasing the tears that fell from my eyes. His face was full of compassion as his hands cupped my face. "Rachel, forgive me. This is the second time I almost forgot about . . ." He broke off and his face held painful regret. "You're not ready. I shouldn't have rushed this."

"No, Michael . . ." I grabbed his wrists. "I want this. I want you. If you remember, I tried to get you up here a couple of nights ago."

He licked his lips. "Rachel . . . I want to make love with you. To you. I want it so badly I can taste it. You're sure you want this?"

I swallowed the rising lump in my throat. "Yes. I want you."

"Do you trust me, love?" His voice was almost a whisper. Wordlessly I nodded. His lips pressed mine in a moist kiss, a kiss meant to comfort. "If you want me to stop whatever it is I'm doing, tell me. Promise me?" I nodded again, wanting desperately to trust him. He was probably the only man I didtrust.

He rose, sliding the coffeetable out of the U-space my sofa made, pulling it around in front of the sliding doors. He walked into my bedroom and came back out moments later with my quilted bedspread, placing it on the floor along with a second one that had been on my quilt rack. He gathered the oversized pillows from the sofa and placed them on the quilt haphazardly. Then, he grabbed the afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it at the foot of the cozy nest he'd created.

He shrugged off the open shirt and zipped his pants down the rest of the way, kicking off his shoes and socks as he pulled down both the pants and his boxers. My gaze lingered on his body -- he looked so flawless in the muted light. He was as beautiful as any Greek or Roman god. I had never realized that men could be so beautiful in all their naked splendor until that very moment.

Somehow my hands fumbled their way to my buttons and he was right there, so close I could feel his body heat. Effortlessly, Michael divested me of my clothes. I'm still not sure exactly how he did it, only that each action was smooth to the point of almost being unnoticed. The next thing I remember is shivering a little as the cooler air hit my naked body. He took my hand and I followed like I was in a dream.

And it was a dream. A beautiful, erotic, sensual dream.

We sank down on the pillows, Michael with one arm supporting my back, the other draped above my head. His eyes were so clear, his face so sharp, but the clarity and sharpness were toned down by the compassion and feeling there. Michael might never love me, but he would always have feelings for me. Normally, I would have said that wasn't enough. But tonight, somehow, it was.

Elusively, he kissed my eyes, my cheeks, my hair. He pulled my lips into gentle kisses, his free hand now roaming over my breast, fingers tweaking my nipple to attention. I was swooning in this man's arms, so swept away I didn't know myself, nor did I care. I pushed his head down to my breasts, and Michael responded immediately, his practiced mouth and hands eliciting sensations from me I'd never felt of such magnitude. I wanted to shout 'I love you, Michael!', but didn't dare. Such an exclamation, I thought wildly, would cause him to stop, and I didn't want that. No, I couldn't bear to have that happen. His teeth nibbled the skin of my abdomen, hands slipping under my buttocks to lift my hips up. I sighed loudly when his mouth caressed me intimately, his tongue probing steadily; my legs widened and I gasped when he found my core. He refused to stop, setting my body on fire and driving me to a near-frenzy. I was so crazy in love with this man I was crying. I felt him return to my arms and he whispered soothingly in my ear, one hand stroking my hair.

At that point, my arms went about him and I looked up into his marvelously handsome face. He looked down on me with almost breathless anticipation and when his lips sank down to mine in a heady, fervent kiss, he slid inside me at the same time -- smoothly, gently, slowly -- creating a sensual rhythm as my breath released into his mouth. He moaned as our bodies met for the first time and I lifted my legs, wrapping them tightly around him, my knees nearly pressing his underarms. I matched the rhythm, luxuriating in the intimate sensation of having him inside me. My nails raked gently down his back as I felt the liquid fire go through me and bathe Michael with each thrust. Kiss after fiery kiss, controlled and forceful thrusts that made me go out of my mind, musky scent mixed with aftershave and Old Spice, sweet salty tang of skin against my tongue . . . he was the only world I wanted to be part of.

"God. Rachel," he breathed into my mouth. "Rachel. Rachel . . ."

I surged up into him, thrusting harder, my tongue in his ear. He groaned loudly, pounding me harder. I could hear the force of the thrusts in my ears and felt the beginnings of a strong orgasm. I gasped, then moaned as tingling, invisible fibers threaded their way through my body to my brain. I was no longer in control of my convulsing body and I shrieked as an explosion ripped my world apart. I heard a drawn-out shout through my haze and realized it was Michael as he came, hard and furious, inside me. He moaned softly in my ear, still thrusting gently after flooding me with his essence.

Finally, he stopped, still inside, his weight welcome in my arms. I caressed the hair at the nape of his neck, my lips reaching his chin and throat to softly caress. He started to pull away, but I tightened my hold on him.

"Stay," I whispered in the growing darkness. "Stay inside me, Michael. Don't go yet."

Michael stayed inside me, all night, even during our periods of rest. We made love three times that night before dawn and toyed and pleasured each other in between. Hardly any words were spoken. There didn't need to be any.

Later that morning I awoke to the cold light that streamed inside my sliding glass door, the Christmas lights from my tree strangely out of place. I pushed myself up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

"Michael?" I called.

There was no answer, but as I turned to switch the lights off on the tree, I almost rolled over on a perfect rose that lay beside me. It was blood-red, dethorned and smelled oh, so sweet. I smiled, picking it up as I got to my feet, walking toward the kitchen. A piece of paper taped to my front door arrested my attention and I detoured, pulling it off to read.


"Sweetheart,

"Take a nice, long, hot shower, dress casual and bring your beautiful self downstairs to the front curb."

"Love, Michael"

"Love." The word was a whisper as it left my throat. Love, Michael. Michael loved me. Me. "Take it easy," I suddenly told myself. "It's a standard signature line."

I followed the note's instructions to the letter, taking a nice hot shower for about twenty minutes, then pulling on a pair of blue jeans and a heavy fisherman's sweater and a pair of blue canvas deck shoes since it was in the 50s. I transferred items from my purse to my hemp bag and then left the condo.

As I walked across the lobby area, I saw the white limo outside the revolving door. The doorman touched his finger to his cap and I smiled back. I hadn't forgotten Ben, who probably wished he was anywhere but here today. I fished around in my bag and pulled out an envelope with his name on it.

"Merry Christmas, Ben," I told the doorman. "I'm sorry you're working today."

The middle-aged doorman smiled wide as he took the proffered envelope. "Thank you, Miss Sands. A Merry Christmas to you, too." He winked. "I get three days off on New Year's. Good compensation."

The air was cold off the ocean, but not freezing. Meg Bening, one of the girls from the pool, opened the door for me. "Hey, Meg," I greeted. "Where are we going?"

She smiled, flipping back her beautiful smooth locks of black. "Just get in, Miss," she teased. "I'm supposed to be taking you to a top secret meeting."

We ended up going to Malibu -- to a secluded stretch of beach with no houses around for what seemed miles. The seagulls cried out against the spray of the ocean and when we pulled down the drive and around the back of a sprawling beachfront home, I saw Michael standing on the deck, staring out at the ocean with a glass of wine in his hand. I glanced at my watch -- eleven-thirty. Michael was casual -- though not too casual, in a heavy cream-colored sweater and white linen pants with light-colored loafers. I sighed, feeling terribly underdressed.

Meg let me out of the car and I climbed up the short flight of steps to the deck. Michael took my hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it, then leaned over and kissed me. I tasted the wine on his lips.

"Welcome," he intimated. "To my home away from home. You're just in time for a marvelous Christmas feast."

I stared at him, for the first time catching the wonderful odors emanating from inside the house. "Have you been cooking?"

"Unfortunately, I can't take the credit," he replied, leading me inside the sunken living room area. A lovely table was set with candles and champagne was chilling in a portable bucket. "The chef just left. He used to work in the White House for the Kennedys."

"Oh, my God." I was breathless. There was roast duckling and dressing, garlic potatoes and all the trimmings and sides you could imagine for a holiday feast. Cold canapes and an antipasto appetizer platter awaited us before the fireplace.

"There's Beluga caviar, crackers and Brie for later," he told me. "Not to mention some of the most luscious strawberries. To go with another bottle of champagne of course."

"Of course."

This man was something else. All of this had to be a small fortune to come up with in so little time. I had to keep reminding myself that money was not a problem for Michael, nor would it ever be. It wasn't the money that impressed me. It was Michael's generosity and good heart. No one had ever treated me like a queen. But if I had awoke that morning to nothing more than that single rose beside me, I would have still thought that of him.

Somehow, our noon-time dinner lasted well into early evening. Michael flirted and toyed with me through the appetizers. Dinner was a seduction in itself, the conversation, although lively and exciting, peppered with double entendres and sexy observations, light and meaningful touches. We talked and talked and talked some more. We would dance periodically to The Doobie Brothers, a few tunes from the Eagles and some Joni Mitchell, laugh at each other's subtle jokes. It was after seven when we finished, the lull in our conversation obvious. Michael was looking at me over the rim of his champagne glass and I found myself blushing. Neither one of us had made reference to our night together. I guess I was half-expecting a kiss-off -- in an elegant way only Michael could administer. Now that he'd had me -- and that I'd finally gotten him "between the sheets" -- the notch had been carved in both our bedposts. The mission had been accomplished. I was waiting for the 'let's still be friends' speech.

It never came.

Instead, Michael rose from the table and extended his hand to me. I thought we were going to dance again, but when I took it, he pulled me hard against his body. I looked up into his eyes -- they were dark with . . . something. I found myself licking dry lips.

"'Creation of woman,'" he said softly, "'from the rib of man: She was not made of his head to top him; nor out of his feet to be trampled upon by him; but out of his side to be equal with him; under his arm, to be protected; and near his heart to be beloved.'"

A tear rolled down my cheek. I didn't know where that quote came from, but it didn't matter. Michael had the sensitivity of a poet. It was an aspect of Michael that only myself, Marella and Gabrielle knew about him. Gently, Michael's thumb brushed at my cheek.

"Why are you crying, love?" His voice was husky, touched with concern.

I licked dry lips again. "Because . . ." I broke off. " . . . because no one's ever treated me like you do. No one's ever taken care of me like this." I swallowed. "No one's ever spoken to me like you, and . . ." I broke off again, shaking my head.

"What?" He tipped my chin up, forcing me to look into his face. "Go on, Rachel."

I could feel my lips tremble. " . . . I . . . oh, God . . ."

"Rachel, tell me."

His eyes were so kind and caring. I was mesmerized. "I . . . I'm afraid . . ."

"Let me say it first, then." His large hands smoothed back my hair and he stared deeply into my eyes. "I love you, Rachel."

God, those words liberated me! I wanted to think that I could look into his face, in his eyes, and know that he meant them. And not that he just meant them -- but meant them with everything he was. That no matter what happened now or in the future, that there would never be any doubt that Michael loved me. That I would always know that love was there.

In that suspended moment, I looked into a man's soul and made myself believe it was mine.

"I believe you." I wrapped my arms around his neck and he pulled me into his body again, tight, almost bruising my ribs. I felt the hot tears roll down my cheeks as I clung tightly to him. "I love you, too."

"Oh, Rachel." He held me tightly, face buried in my neck. "What are we letting ourselves in for?" he whispered in my ear. "I can't resist you. I tried so hard. But I can't."

I leaned back in surprise. "Y . . .you . . . couldn't resist . . . me?" I think I squeaked on the last word.

His gaze was one of amazement. "You really have no clue, do you?" He brushed back my hair fondly. "My God, angel. I've been in love with you since that horrible night in Des Moines, back in July. I thought it was written all over my face, every time I saw you, every time you were with me. Did you honestly think it was all just because I wanted to get you into bed?"

I lowered my eyes. "I . . . I wanted to believe it was more than that. I felt like it was. But . . ." I raised my eyes back up. "I guess I just couldn't understand how a man like you could love someone like me. You know -- inexperienced, naïve . . . kind of stupid where men are concerned . . ."

"Damn. I love your innocence. I'm going to hate to see you lose that later on."

I frowned at that statement. "What do you mean?"

Michael shook his head. "Never mind." He kissed my forehead gently, then sighed, just holding me close. "I have an unpublished rule, you know," he informed me softly.

"Unpublished rule?" I murmured into his chest.

"Yeah. Never get involved with an operative."

"Oh." I paused, then smiled. "You follow that almost as well as the one about no steady escorts."

"Well, you know. Once in awhile a certain woman comes along and you find yourself breaking all the rules."

"Oh, I see. So you're hanging the blame on my head."

He chuckled. "I'm just stating a fact. I'm glad you came along. I forgot -- how good it can be to feel like this." He stroked my hair, something I'd always liked. "I feel like a head-busting seventeen again." I could hear the grin in his words.

Then, he leaned back from me and took my hand, leading me into the darkened bedroom off the living room area. He loosed my hand, going over to the nightstand by the bed, opening a drawer and taking out a book of matches. He swiped one across the bottom, then lit a large, lavender-scented candle on the stand. It lent a mysterious atmosphere to the darkness, so much shadow with a little light. Then he came to me, hands resting lightly on my waist.

Wordlessly, we undressed each other, each smooth motion allowing for erotic observation. When we were naked, he touched my shoulder with his long, beautiful fingers, and they slid down to my elbow, then down my forearm until he took my hand in his. He raised it up, pressing my palm against his mouth. The silken hair from his moustache tickled, but the warmth of his lips and tongue offset any ticklish effects. I could feel the tightness building inside of me, with the foreknowledge that when this man made love to me, it would set forth my wildest demons of passion. Even moreso than he had the night before.

He guided me to the bed, one arm still around me, my hand still pressed to his lips. Gently, I removed my hand and leaned into him, my arms winding about his neck, mouth pressing his hotly and openly. His tongue fenced with mine delicately, then he pulled away, burying his face in my breasts, evoking in me emotions and sensations I had never in my wildest dreams imagined. He rocked forward, and I was laying supine on the bed. The music had switched over to the Flower Duet.

My mind raced. No one had ever made love to me like this. I lost my virginity at sixteen and I'd had lovers up until the time I was raped -- not many, but some. None of them held a candle to Michael Coldsmith-Briggs. When he made love, he did it with his entire body, his entire self. This was what it was like to have a man in love with you, I thought triumphantly. My hands wove through his hair and his mouth and hands were all over me. I couldn't lie still under his touch and I found myself wanting to make him feel like he made me feel. I knew he needed -- wanted -- to have someone love him, care about him, to take him out of himself, even if it was for just a little while.

"Michael," I called softly.

Breathing hard, he lifted his head from my thigh, gaze meeting mine. I held out my arms and he came to me, kissing me again.

"I want you," he whispered against my lips. "Oh, God, I want you so much."

I moved so I was sitting up and then gently pushed him down on his back. "I'm yours," I told him breathlessly. His eyes questioned. "Relax," I said softly. "Let me do this."

He began to protest, but I placed my fingers on his mouth. My hands slid over his shoulders, over his arms -- Michael, for all his high living, was in wonderful shape. His barrel chest heaved under my hands, the muscles of his abdomen tightening when they reached his belly.

"Please," he whispered, almost as if he were drugged. "Rachel, please."

Any inhibitions I may have had were gone. I leaned down, taking his erection in my mouth and covering it. He cried out, hands tangling in my long hair. At first I thought he was trying to push me away, but then I realized that he was encouraging me. Michael quivered uncontrollably, pulling me closer, pushing deeper into my throat. His need infused me with my own passion and I took him as deeply as I could. He groaned repeatedly, gasping when I stroked his testicles, stroking my hair and murmuring how beautiful I was. Part of me knew it was merely something said in the throes of passion, but it made me want to make love with him all the more.

Then he was pulling me up, his mouth devouring mine. He parted my legs, thrusting two fingers inside me. I cried out, feeling my wetness cover his hand. I held onto him, afraid of fainting. He leaned over me, kneeling between my legs, and I couldn't take the waiting any longer -- he seemed to sense it. Gently, he slid inside me, and I cried so loud that momentarily, he stopped, I'm sure fearing that he'd hurt me. But my hands went to his shoulders and I pulled his full weight on top of me, legs lifting to encircle his waist. It was as though a fiery lance had pierced me through, but the sensation was pure pleasure -- pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

"Oh, God," I heard him whisper. "Oh, my God." Finally, he began to thrust, and I whimpered like a little girl. "Oh, Rachel. Rachel, love . . ."

I pulled back, looking fearlessly into his eyes, matching his rhythm, tightening around him with every thrust. "I will never," I pledged breathlessly, "love anyone like I love you. Never."

He looked down at me with a myriad of emotions on his face; the friction and the motion was building. I felt like my entire body was tingling -- no shook. It shook from the force that flowed between us and through us.

"Mi amore," he said from deep within his throat. His mouth came down upon mine again and my tears wetted both our faces. "I love you, Rachel."

A blinding heat ripped its way through me with the force of a whirlwind and I know I screamed, grasping him as close to me as I could, as if he were the only thing keeping me from drowning. I felt his continued thrusts, marveled at his stamina in a detached sort of way. My inner muscles flexed with his thrusts and I squeezed around him with furious intent. Michael growled deep in his throat and choked me with a long, open-mouthed kiss. My hands slipped down to the small of his back and I exerted subtle pressure; the thrusts became more erratic and I felt him tense even more in my arms.

He exploded inside me and a shout tore from his throat as he spilled inside me. I could feel him fill me up and held him firmly anchored until he stopped moving, draping over me. For a long, long time we lay there. I stroked his back and hair, placing a kiss near or on his ear every so often. My legs relaxed but I still held him cradled to me. He lay with his head on my shoulder, breathing slightly shaky, but regular. We were both slick with heavy perspiration and the sheets were soaked, but that didn't matter.

When he looked up from my shoulder and into my eyes, I was almost speechless to see that his face was wet -- not from sweat, from tears. I stroked his cheek and kissed his chin, tasting the salty tang of them. I didn't ask why -- I wasn't sure why, but my understanding didn't matter unless he chose to make it matter to me. His kiss was tender and lengthy and I let him have all that he wanted of me. We continued to touch and caress each other long after; his eyes fixed on what his hands or his mouth would do, then return to my gaze. I began to follow his lead and it began to become the most sensual experience I could imagine -- he knew what I wanted almost the moment I thought it, as I did with him.

Much later, as we lay in each other's arms, with the surf sounding in the background, his voice sounded quietly in the darkness. "If I wasn't tied down to The Firm, Rachel, I'd ask you to marry me."

"If I wasn't tied down to The Firm, Michael, I'd accept."

There were a few beats of silence. "Being my woman isn't going to be easy, Rachel."

"Nothing with you ever is."

He laughed softly, deep in his throat. "Touche, my lovely paramour." He leaned up on his elbow and looked down at me. "This house -- I've added your name to the deed. Keep the condo if you want it, but when I'm with you, this is where I want to be. I want this to be ours."

"First a car, then yourself and now half this house?" I looked up at him. "Michael --"

"No. I won't have you refuse."

"I'm not going to refuse," I said softly. "But you need to know something. And that is, I can live without you showering me with stuff. Material stuff. I've got what I want. You."

"Material stuff comes with the territory," Michael replied, pulling me into his chest again. "So get used to it, mi amore. Get used to it, because I'm going to spoil you rotten." He paused. "But thank you for telling me anyway."

"At any point have you ever thought I might be after your money?" I queried of him, for some reason needing to know.

"No." His answer was resounding -- quiet, but definite. "That's one thing I never worried about with you. And I never will. That's why we're together now. I could never be with a woman I couldn't trust."

"That's a lovely thing to say."

"There's only one thing I ask in return," he whispered softly in the darkness.

"Ask me." I'd never felt so close to him.

"Please. No matter what happens, Rachel. I'm asking you -- please, don't ever betray me. If you can promise me that, I'll love you and take care of you for the rest of our lives."

"That's a promise I'll gladly make," I replied. "As long as I can count on the same from you."

"I'll swear to that. On everything I hold sacred."

"Then so will I."

The roaring winter waves were witness to our testament. We had now given our most meaningful gifts to each other that Christmas.

Sometimes the best gifts are tied with heartstrings.

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

Over the next few months, in addition to my ever-burgeoning schedule of classes, I was given a taste of the covert style of life. Michael had me do simple drop-offs, exchanges and courier jobs. One such exchange took place during Mardi Gras down in New Orleans. And it damn near cost me my life.

It was Fat Tuesday. All the street parties were in full swing and would be well into the wee hours of the next morning. I had arrived the Friday before, checked into the St. Ann/Marie Antoinette in the French Quarter. It was half a block from Bourbon Street, where all the hoopla was taking place. Michael had given me explicit instructions about the mission which I was expected to follow to the letter. I had to memorize everything. I couldn't even take notes.

I was given alternate identification. It wasn't unusual for a single woman to go on a vacation alone, it had been reasoned. It wasn't common, but hardly unusual. My petite suite had a private balcony overlooking the courtyard and the pool. The bed was a queen-size -- very comfortable -- and all the amenities were available. There was a gate from the courtyard that led right out to the street, so I could go down to the first floor, out the side door into the courtyard and never have to go through the front lobby. The courtyard was thick with vegetation and semi-privacy could be assured should one choose to read a book on one of the benches beneath a cypress or by the bougainvillea. Fountains dating back to the early 1700s could be heard trickling their waters into moss-covered basins. Despite the frivolity of the season, it was quite tranquil. My identity as a partner in a small but prestigious law firm stuck.

I spent the time taking swamp tours, plantation tours, a tour of Jackson Square. I stopped by on Saturday night to attend a mass, slipping out during communion to walk the dusky Canal street, where many a boutique and café could be found. I even took the cemetery tour of St. Louis No. 1, the area where I was to actually make the exchange. I couldn't help but shiver as we passed Marie Laveau's tomb -- the great voodoo queen who had been rumored to be well over one hundred when she died. Call me superstitious -- I had a healthy respect for a lot of unseen things. I believed there was a small percentage of people who had 'the magic touch' with them, that were healers, that were sent among us. Candles burned on her tomb in silent vigil when my tour group passed it, gifts left by supplicants to whom wishes had been granted.

So Tuesday rolled around. I spent the day exploring Jackson Square and taking in the sights -- the huge statue of Andrew Jackson, the St. Louis Cathedral -- it was all wondrous to behold. Outside the iron fencing, there was a never-ending array of jazz bands, mimes, dancers and artists interspersed with ice cream vendors. At dinner, I went to a lovely little place called Café Marigny on Esplanade, just north in the French Quarter, treating myself to a wonderful dinner of quail, portobello mushrooms and a house salad of endive, goat cheese, cucumbers, carrots and tomatoes. Too full for dessert, I wandered back down Bourbon Street with the revelers, keeping a keen eye on the time.

At nine-twenty, I caught a bus and disembarked four blocks from the cemetery. It was now nine-forty-three. I shouldered my heavy canvas bag which contained another canvas bag filled with bearer bonds to the tune of a quarter million dollars. All this for a set of four computer discs and a microfilm backup of some missile and delivery system that China was constructing that would contain biotoxins during war time. The information had been passed along to a contact in France, who had passed it along to an American 'tourist' in Marseilles, who was now coming to New Orleans to pass it along to me.

Once it fell into my hands, the procedure was simple. I was to return to my hotel, do a wipedown of my suite, check out, take a cab to a deserted library parking lot in LaPlace, a northern suburb of New Orleans, where a car would be registered to me under another identity, and I was to drive straight through to Los Angeles, stopping only for gas and for the purpose of relieving myself when necessary. I would be provided with plenty of juices and snack bars to nibble on during my trip to stave off hunger pangs. But Michael had made it very clear -- he wanted that information in his hands -- from my hands -- within twenty-four hours of the exchange.

The cemetery gate was closed and locked after nightfall, but I'd seen a place in the iron-spiked gate where the bars had been widened. I slipped through with no trouble and quietly made my way through the tombstones. As I wound my way around, I couldn't help but think of the incident with my parents' graves almost nine months before. It made me shudder, but I doggedly continued on. An eerie glow was visible from up ahead, and I realized that I was fast-approaching the tomb of Marie Laveau once more. As corny as it had seemed, I'd purchased a votive candle and some matches earlier. I knelt in front of the now-abandoned tomb and set my little glass container down next to the others, lighting it gingerly. Then, I straightened, turned around counterclockwise three times and prayed for a successful mission and a successful relationship with Michael. It sounded stupid when a lady from the novelty shop I'd purchased the candle from told me about it. It felt even more stupid now. But somehow it was something I felt I needed to do. When in Rome . . .

With great decorum, I took some of the plastic beads from my neck and placed them near my votive as an offering. As an afterthought, I took off my sapphire earrings and placed them within the coils of the beads. I didn't know if it would put me in any more good standing with the long-dead voodoo queen for purposes of protection, but it was worth a shot. God, if Michael had been witness to this, he'd be busting a gut laughing, I thought. Briefly, I touched the tomb, then turned to be on my way, to a tomb further in, emblazoned with the name Charbaneaux.

It was obvious I was being watched. I took some comfort in the fact that up my sleeve was a switchblade and that I carried a snub-nose .38 that was untraceable inside my jacket. Sometimes double-crosses did happen. Or unforeseen circumstances took place. If things fell apart, I was to leave with the bearer bonds, try to get the information if possible, and if not possible, get the hell out and follow the rest of the plan. No police involvement, no civilian involvement. If I was pursued, shoot to kill. Simple as that.

Except that it's almost always inevitable -- there is nothing that simple.

The Charbaneaux mausoleum loomed forebodingly ahead. The four pillars in front were Ionic in construction, the vestibule graced with Grecian urns. Red moss covered the white stone, giving it a strange patchwork quality. The leaded glass windows were caked with God knew how many decades of grime. I cased my area, noting a slight movement to my left near an old cypress. I became very aware of the weight of the gun in my jacket. I stood in front of the mausoleum, my eyes turned up to the delicate flowers that wove it's way over the arch.. A distinct presence at my elbow was made known. Looking out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black man, about five-nine, with close-cropped hair and a stocky build, approach.

"Who is wise?" he asked in a low, richly accented voice.

"He that learns from everyone," I replied unemotionally.

"Who is powerful?"

"He that governs his passions."

"Who is rich?"

"He who is content."

"Who is that?"

"Nobody."

There was a pause. "I assume that you have the payment."

"If you have the merchandise."

A brown package was handed to me. I dropped it into my bag, then fished around for the smaller canvas bag inside, casually handing it over.

"Tell Archangel it's been a pleasure as always," the man said.

When I turned, he had melted into the darkness. I began to breathe again and turned, heading back down the pathway. I had a fairly good sense of direction and I zig-zagged between tombstones, deviating from the path in case anyone might be watching. Muggings and rapes were not uncommon in these above-ground cemeteries. I could take care of myself, but I wasn't looking for anything to happen.

Of course, that's when it did happen.

Two men in grey suits seemed to materialize magically from nowhere, blocking my path. If I'd been in less of a hurry to get out of there, had I extended my perceptions outward, I would have realized their presence before I encountered it. A gunshot rang out and I jumped. It could have been a reveler discharging a firearm. But the noise had been awfully close and I wondered if my contact had lost the chance to spend that quarter million in bonds. I turned tail and ran, zig-zagging diagonally across the ground where I could, hoping I was fast enough and small enough that they'd eventually lose me.

"Ms. Laveau," I said under my breath, "if you're inclined to help me out right now, I sure wouldn't say no."

The front gate wasn't far, about another hundred and fifty yards. Once I made it outside the gate, all I had to do was make it near the French Quarter in one of the late-running buses. Did I mention that seven out of ten missions -- whether something as simple as an exchange or as complicated as sabotage -- usually end up not going as planned? I was a mere ten feet away from the opening in the gate when I felt a hand grab my hair and yank me backwards. My bag went flying and my assailant had let me go long enough to reach for it. Without thinking, my foot shot out and hit him in the gut, just at the breastbone. I heard it crack with the force of my kick, but I knew it wasn't a bad injury, it would just wind him. I crawled toward my bag and then felt the same hand close around my ankle. My fingers brushed the smooth plastic of the handle. The man's weight fell upon my back as I clawed the ground, I could feel him scrambling over me. I reached up, grabbing for his eyes, when I heard a gurgle and something warm and sticky spilling over my hand. Suddenly, the man was dead weight on my back and it was an effort to roll over with him on top of me. When I twisted around, I realized that with an inadvertent flick of my wrist, the blade hidden beneath my sleeve had sprung out, spearing his throat. Stunned, I watched as the life drained from his face and eyes; his hands quit clutching at his own throat and his head tipped to the side, mouth open and eyes staring. I licked dry lips.

I killed a man. It might have been accidental, but the fact remained. He was dead.

Slowly, I got to my feet, reaching down to pick up my bag. As I straightened, something hit me with the force of a freight train, throwing me against the iron-wrought fence. Pain sliced through my side and my ankle twisted. I felt the skin on my face break open when my cheekbone hit one of the bars. Then, the weight was off me and I looked up into the chiseled face and a gun-barrel. In the man's hand was the bag which carried the bearer bonds. Believe it or not, all I could think of was how pissed off Michael was going to be at losing both the bonds AND the information. I thought it was over -- that my Waterloo had come.

A crash sounded and the man reacted violently, dropping his gun and slumping to the ground. Shards of pottery -- terra cotta, I think it was -- rained down on me like a rainstorm. I looked up into the dark face of a woman. Her eyes were brown and wide, the whites pale against her face. Even in the dark, I could tell for all her African background, the fine features of her face bespoke probable French heritage. She was thin, but womanly, a swirling skirt of oranges, browns and reds blowing about her legs and a cotton blouse of orange. Pucca shell bracelets adorned her arms and beaded necklaces were around her throat. Her black hair swirled about her sharp features.

"Hurry, sistah!" she half-hissed. "Follow me!"

I watched as she slipped through the gate. My shock was wearing off and with a flick of my wrist, my switchblade disappeared inside my sleeve. I picked up both my canvas bag and the money, then followed her down the street to a church. She beckoned me inside the door and took me down a dark tiled hallway to a door that read LADIES. The light glared when she switched it on and she began to run lukewarm water into one of the sink basins.

"You gonna need to wash that blood off, missy," she said, already grabbing some paper towels from the dispenser and wetting them, then soaking them in soap. "This be Mardi Gras, but th' authorities, they be no fools. Blood can be smelt."

"Why are you helping me?" I asked, busily unbuttoning my blouse and beginning to wash off the blood that stained my skin.

"No way was I gonna watch th' bastard shoot holes in you, ma chere! Too many people have been victims in that place! What were you thinking? Whatever was in those bags was worth your life?"

"Many times over," I murmured. "Thank you."

"Ah, no need to thank me, Mamselle," the black woman answered, helping me with my washing. "You finish cleaning up-- I be back shortly."

She left me for the moment. I wondered if she was an operative of Michael's. In about two minutes, she was back, holding out a plain black T-shirt to me.

"There!" she said, satisfied. "I thought that be your size. You small -- but not that small!" She grinned. "Old Marie, she raid the clothes bank! It be clean, too!" She must have caught my expression. "Not to worry, bebe! The clothes be for the needy! You needed it, so you be needy! Come now! You come to my shop -- Mama Marie fix up that ankle and dose ribs!"

Too tired and sore to protest, I followed her out of the church and we caught a late bus to Canal Street. Most of the storefronts were closed. Marie indicated a corner store and took out a key hanging about her neck to open the door. Inside, it smelled of must and spices and some other things I couldn't identify. It was an occult shop -- skulls glared from the top shelves, jars of Graveyard Dust and Dragon's Blood were on the counter. Dried herbs were in small drawers built into the wall . . . a hand of glory was near the old-fashioned cash register. So many herbs and wonders filled this aisles and walls. Marie motioned me behind some curtains in back of the counter. There was a twin bed against the wall, comfortably made up, windchimes hanging from the ceiling, a stove in the corner. Out of place in the old-fashioned room was a microwave oven standing on a mobile TV stand.

"You rest and let Mama take care you," she told me. "You coulda cracked a rib there, ma chere. Take your shirt off."

I let the woman -- 'Mama' -- take care of me. Michael would kill me. Civilians weren't supposed to get involved, but I really didn't have much of a choice. 'Mama' had decided to get involved without my permission. Besides, I wasn't in the best of shape. I was sore, I was thick-headed, I was scared . . . I had every reason in the world to distrust this woman, but I didn't.

She prepared a poultice of some kind and soaked some strips of linen in the warm mixture, wrapping my ribs with it and my ankle, which was beginning to swell. She also fixed me a big mug of chamomile tea to relax me. When she was finished, she dabbed a little oil on the broken skin at my cheekbone.

"You use this on the skin, it heal up fast, missy," she was telling me.

I looked at the bottle. "Castor oil," I murmured. I'd heard of the rumored healing properties.

"Good for what ails you," the woman confirmed. "Fixes things you wouldn't think -- if you believe it will. Now Mama gonna put together for you a gris-gris, to keep evil away from you. You rest there. Won't take a minute."

I chuckled as she left. Gris-gris, magic, hocus-pocus. Then I thought about how close to a miracle it was that this woman had seen me in trouble and had taken it upon herself to help me against two armed men. As I thought about this, some other thoughts came to mind. Like what she had been doing in the cemetery to begin with. Was she a voodoo practitioner? Evidently so, considering this storefront. And how had she known where I'd hurt myself? I decided not to question my good fortune too closely. Maybe I could leave the part about civilian intervention out in my report.

The lady returned about ten minutes later with a small cotton bag, hand-sewn. She held it open and close to my mouth. "Put your breath on it, cherie, to infuse it with your personal power," she told me. I humored her and did as she asked. How much more stupid was this than lighting a candle on Marie Laveau's grave?

"There. Now you wear this 'round your neck," she said, stringing a cord through it and placing it over me. "Long as you wear it, no harm come to you. You have Mama Marie's word on that."

"Thank you, Mama," I acknowledged. "You're a good woman."

She grinned. "Depend on who you talk to. There be horse-and-buggies come down this street to the corner in ten-fifteen minutes -- take you to where you stay. You just let yourself out -- twist the lock to the left on inside and shut the door. Mama gotta go now. But you come back and see me again, Mamselle Rachel. Mama remember you." She smiled again, her bracelets and necklaces rattling as she turned to go through the beaded curtain to the front of the store.

A flash of light at her earlobe caught my eye and a sudden jolt went through me. Suddenly, despite the pain, I was on my feet and following her out.

"Mama Marie!" I called. She stopped at the door. I took a good look at her and stared at her earlobes -- she was wearing my sapphire earrings! The very ones I'd left at the grave! My jaw dropped. "Mama Marie?" My voice dropped.

"You come see me anytime, child, anytime you come back to N'awlins. You know where I am." The door closed and the bell clanged with her departure.

Stunned, I watched the woman walk down the street, seeming to melt into the darkness. And I mean, she melted. Disappeared. Walked into nothingness.

Still in shock, I left the little shop as she'd instructed, taking with me my two bags. I caught the horse and buggy and went back to my hotel -- through the lobby, probably looking a little disheveled, but no one seemed to notice, since the staff probably assumed I'd had a bit too much to drink as all Mardi Gras revelers tended to do. Systematically, I erased all evidence of hand or fingerprints in my room and then checked out that evening. This was the only thing that tended to surprise the staff -- but I casually explained that I had an emergency back at the law office. I was graciously solicited to come back at a later date and I assured the concierge I would do so.

I took a cab to a convenience store six blocks away from the LaPlace library and walked the rest of the way with my luggage. Sure enough, there was a car waiting for me -- a red Firebird -- in the deserted lot. With a sigh, I lobbed my luggage inside the back and then hit a diner north on the way out of town, filling a thermos I'd brought with strong coffee. I took Highway 10 through to Baton Rouge, Lake Charles into Beaumont, Texas. From there I hit Houston, then kept going 'til I hit San Antonio, where I gassed up and loaded up on fruit at a road-side stand. I'd been averaging about 80 miles per hour, outfitted with a radar detector. By noon, I'd covered about half of the almost-two thousand miles to Los Angeles.

The car was littered with candy wrappers, pop cans and juice jars. I'd been going about thirty hours without sleep, had nothing but nerves keeping me going. And I had a thousand miles to go. It was after that first thousand miles that I began to think about what happened back in New Orleans. No one would believe me if I told them. I decided if I ever wrote my memoirs, that was definitely a chapter worth including. Maybe, someday, I would even tell Michael about it. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Highway 10 was the most direct route straight into Los Angeles. I might not quite make the deadline, but if I could hit 90 or 95 miles per our in New Mexico and Arizona over the course of a few hours without having to worry about cops, I might actually make it, dependent on traffic. I was falling asleep at the wheel by the time I hit Palm Springs.

About that time, my car phone rang. I stared at it, not expecting any phone calls, but this was a Firm-owned car, so I supposed it had to do with Firm business. I picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Rach," came Marella's voice on a secure line. "We're tracking you going through Palm Springs."

"Yeah, I'm on my way out now," I confirmed.

"How'd it go?"

"It got a little hairy. I'll tell you about it when I get in."

"I already got the details. Listen, next town is Banning. There's a McDonald's on the right. Pull into the parking lot, that's where I'll be waiting."

"OK. See you there."

It was only another sixteen or so miles and I saw the McDonald's easily from the highway. As I pulled in beside the limo, Marella stepped out along with a couple of other operatives I recognized from classes and orientation. One of them slid behind the wheel of the Firebird and the other got in with her on the passenger's side. Marella took the canvas bag I pulled out of the back and indicated I should precede her into the limousine.

"Rough ride?" she asked sympathetically, as I leaned back tiredly in the seat across from her.

"Oh, yeah. I don't think I've ever been so paranoid in my life."

"After almost getting killed, I wouldn't be surprised. We had you watched, you know."

"Oh, great! You had me watched -- where the hell was backup when I needed it?!"

"Relax. One of our New Orleans field operatives was going to come to your rescue with the second guy, but that woman interfered. He didn't know if she was a tail Michael had put on you or not, so he stayed out of it. You seemed to be fine, with her help. Civilian, wasn't she?"

"Uhm . . . you could say that." I was not about to tell Marella my real suspicions. "I assumed she was a tail, too, until she told me different."

"We tried to locate her afterwards, but had no luck. She just disappeared." Marella waved it off, then smiled. "We lost a good mercenary -- Paul Proudfoot had been working with us for years. We were sorry to lose him."

"Yeah, that was too bad. I couldn't exactly warn him when I didn't know myself."

"Paul knew the chances. Michael won't be happy about it either, but he won't be unhappy that we managed to get both the missile plans and the quarter million back."

"So did Michael send you out to bring me in?" I queried.

"Yeah, he expected you might be a bit late. He knew how tired you'd be. So he called in to the L.A. office and had me run out to meet you."

"Called in? He's not at Knightsbridge?"

"Nope, and that's something else I need to talk with you about. I know you've just had a really rough and tiring exchange, but you're going straight to LAX. The Firm jet is waiting for you to get on it to go directly to Newport News Airport in Virginia. A limo is going to take you to Michael's family estate just outside Williamsburg."

"Uh . . . what's the deal? Michael decided to visit his family on the QT and wants me there for some reason?"

Marella looked down for a moment, face veiled. Then she looked up and I saw she was crying. "Michael's mother died just a few hours ago. Heart failure."

"Oh, my God." I felt as though the wind had been totally knocked out of me. I knew how close Michael was with his mother. "Marella, how is he?"

"Not good. I couldn't read him very well, but I know he's not good."

"And -- he wants me there why? I'm not family. It would've made more sense for you to be there, not me."

"He needs me to run the division in his absence. He didn't even think twice when he asked for you to follow." Marella paused, wiping at her eyes. "So you're all packed, your luggage is on the plane." She paused again. "Michael wanted you there, Rachel. You'd met his mother and his sister. I think he wants you there just to be there -- for comfort and companionship. He . . . doesn't get along well with his father. Not at all."

"So I'm supposed to be a buffer, right?" I leaned back tiredly. "OK. So I'll buff. How bad is the relationship between Michael and his father?"

"They haven't spoken much to each other for years. That's why when he sees his mother or any of his family, it's always at his sister's house in Connecticut."

"Kind of a volatile situation, then, huh?" I closed my eyes.

"It has the potential. Think you can handle it?"

"I don't have a choice," I replied, a little grimly. "I mean . . . Michael expects me to be there. How can I say no?"

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

I slept like the dead on the flight to Virginia. When we arrived about seven a.m., I was hungry as a horse. A black limo was waiting for me at the airport and Vince, my pilot, picked up a rental car to drive himself into Williamsburg until called upon by Michael. I wasn't quite sure why Michael didn't have Vince drop me off at the estate, but I didn't really care much at that point. By the time we turned into the estate almost an hour later, my stomach was rumbling bigtime. I hadn't had time to change since New Orleans, and I felt grimy and smelly. I asked the limo driver to pull over into a gas station so I could use the facilities and at least wash up and change my top. My hair was a lost cause, I decided. I hoped I didn't see anyone when we arrived. As luck would have it, I was shown inside by the butler and escorted through the house to the grounds out back, where Michael and Evelyn and a younger lady I didn't recognize were taking advantage of the unseasonably warm spring weather and having a breakfast buffet that was set out to the side of the patio. Michael rose at my arrival and looked absolutely relieved. He took my hand and placed a warm kiss on my cheek.

"I'm so glad you're here," he intimated in my ear. His fingers brushed my bruised cheek and I didn't miss the look of concern. Out loud he said, "Evelyn, you remember Rachel?"

Evelyn took my proffered hand and smiled warmly. "Rachel, it's good to have you here."

"And my younger sister, Elizabeth," he introduced.

Elizabeth was perhaps thirty, blonde and lovely. She extended her hand to me and I took it.

"Very pleased to meet you," she drawled slightly. "We've been hearing a lot about you."

I blushed and glanced at Michael as he seated me at the table. "I can imagine."

"No, you can't," the younger woman teased.

I laughed nervously as Michael poured me some coffee. "So which route did Michael go? Did he make me out to be a saint or a slut?"

"A little bit of both," Evelyn said, not missing a beat, eyes crinkling. But I could tell she'd been crying from that red-rimmed look.

"You're probably starving," Michael said. "Have you had breakfast yet, Rachel?"

I shook my head. "No, and you're right, I am starving."

"Let me fill a plate for you."

Wow. The boss was really catering to me. There were a few beats of silence, then I spoke again. "You've probably heard this about a thousand times, but please, let me extend my condolences on your loss," I told them all. "Michael's told me how close all of you are."

"You met mother once," Evelyn said quietly. "She really liked you, Rachel. Said you were a real pistol."

I smiled faintly. "I liked her, too. She was quite a lady. I'll miss her." Michael returned with my plate and set it down before me. I looked up into his troubled eyes and smiled. "Thank you, Michael."

As everyone else finished up and I set to work on my eggs and caviar, the three of them reminisced about their mother, even managing a chuckle or two. But there was something that wasn't being said, I could feel it. It was almost like they hated not including me in this secret knowledge, but it was simply not something I could share with them yet. I accepted that. I had to.

I was on my second cup of coffee when Michael excused himself and walked across the grounds to the rose garden, leaving me with his sisters. My eyes followed his lean figure, casual in white slacks and a pullover sweater.

"The rose garden was always Michael's and mother's special place," Elizabeth said, watching my face. "He loved spending time there, even when he was in college. He helped mother tend that garden. He loves it -- even when it's too early for roses."

"Didn't she develop a genus of rose that she named Michael's Blush?" I queried quietly.

Evelyn stared at me. "Yes. That was a prizewinner. It's a white rose with a thin line of crimson on the petal edges." She paused. "Michael told you about that?"

I nodded silently. Michael had shared with me a lot of things about his life, usually in the aftermath of our lovemaking. Sometimes we would be able to spend more than just a night together -- sometimes we spent a few days and once, we even got two weeks in relative peace and quiet when we were in Martinique. I'd felt more like Michael's wife than his lover, and he treated me as though that was exactly what I was. In those intimate moments, he would let down his guard. I knew what hurt him the most, what got him the most angry, why he would react to this or that in a certain way. I also knew there was a rift between him and his father, but I didn't know what it was about. Michael had never told me that.

"It's a good thing you're here," Elizabeth said suddenly. Her brown eyes became veiled. "It'll keep Michael from killing dad."

I licked my lips, then looked up at them. "Can someone please clue me in? I don't need the whole story, but if I'm supposed to be a peacemaker here or some sort of diplomat, I at least need the basics."

Evelyn and Elizabeth looked at each other, as if debating. Finally, Evelyn shrugged. "She might as well know. Rachel's practically family, anyway."

Elizabeth nodded in agreement. "OK. Here's the dirty laundry. Dad and Michael have never gotten along. Even when he was a kid, Dad didn't like him much, mostly because he was so close to our mother. Called him a mama's boy. Said he'd never amount to anything. Probably would grow up to be gay or something."

I stared. I'd been blessed with a very loving family while I'd had it. My heart got stuck in my throat.

"Anyway, dad used to get drunk a lot when he was home and used to whip the tar out of Michael. Michael was always very careful to hide that from our Mother. And when Mother found out, she packed Evelyn and Michael up and took them to Grandpa Briggs' house. Dad and Grandpa had a long discussion and then Dad went away for awhile," Elizabeth continued. "We think Grandpa sent him someplace in Switzerland to dry out. We don't know for sure. All we know is that Dad never touched a drop after he came back. He didn't divorce our mother -- that would have been too much of a scandal. But what he didn't do in drinking, he made up in infidelity. It was a wonder I was ever born. Mom accepted that part of his life. I guess she figured it was better than him drinking and beating either her or Michael again."

I shook my head. "My God. I had no idea."

"Screwed up families don't just exist in the low income bracket, Rachel," Evelyn told me soberly. "Dad is an alcoholic. He's been sober for years, but he's still an alcoholic."

We were quiet for a long time. Finally, I said, "I was just so surprised when Marella told me. Claire looked healthy as a horse. I had no idea she had a heart condition."

"It was congenital," Evelyn said. "All of us are lucky -- we don't have it. We've had extensive testing."

"Wow. No wonder there's so much bad blood between them."

A breeze stirred up from the northwest. Evelyn rose. "So. Funeral's at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning -- the service will be held in the chapel and burial will be down near the family crypts," she indicated, pointing beyond the rose garden to an old family cemetery. "There'll be a buffet luncheon here at the house afterwards, mother's body will be brought here tonight for a seven o'clock viewing. We're expecting a lot of people."

"Don't worry, I can help you with whatever you need . . ."

"Dad has household staff for that kind of stuff. If you could just kind of watch out for Michael -- and make sure that he and Dad don't get at each other's throats. As far as we're concerned, you're a friend of the family," Elizabeth said evenly. "Maybe if you wanted to do little things, like make sure everyone signs the registry . . . that would be helpful. Mainly we're just concerned about Michael and Dad. We knew having you here could alleviate any pending falling outs. That's why we were so relieved when Michael said you were coming."

"Whatever you need me for, just ask," I said.

"I'll show you to your room," Evelyn told me, rising from the table. "C'mon. I bet you'll want to shower and then take a nap. Michael said you'd just come off a mission before coming here."

I followed her inside after waving to Elizabeth. "Yeah. It was a rough run."

"Looks like it, judging from that nasty bruise on your cheek."

Self-consciously, I touched it. Then, we went back to the front of the house and up a marbled staircase that extended on both sides of the entryway. I felt out of place in my jeans and cotton blouse, but Evelyn and Elizabeth had been casual, too, so I didn't feel so bad. She led me down the first hallway and at the end of it, we turned left and went all the way to the end, then left again. She indicated the white-painted doors on our right.

"You've got a view of the grounds in the back, the garden, all of it," Evelyn told me. "And your room is right next to Michael's. Your luggage is already in there. Michael isn't planning on leaving until after the weekend, so don’t live out of your suitcase. Make yourself at home."

"Thanks, Evelyn. I will."

"Lunch is one o'clock, main dining room. If you sleep through it, no one will blame you. You've had a long haul."

"Oh, I plan on making it."

Evelyn smiled and turned around, leaving me to my own devices. I opened the doors. The room was in mahogany browns and forest greens. I immediately warmed to it and began the task of unpacking my bags. I had no idea what had been packed, but I noticed the several garment bags that had been brought along that hadn't been on my New Orleans trip. They held several dinner dresses and two or three basic black ones. I chose a modest knee-length dress for the visitation that night. After taking a hot shower and laying out my clothes for that evening, I tumbled into bed and pulled the covers up around me. I was absolutely dying for more sleep.

Needless to say I did not make the one o'clock lunch.

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

I awoke to a knock on my door. Groggily, I lifted my head. It was getting dark outside. I glanced over at the clock by the bed and blanched. It was ten minutes to six! Quickly I hopped out of bed and grabbed my robe, wrapping it around me before going to the door.

"Yes?" I called.

"It's me, Rach," came Evelyn's voice.

I opened the door. Evelyn was already dressed, not a hair out of place. She came through my door.

"God, I overslept," I muttered, closing the door behind her.

"It's OK, we let you sleep as long as we could," she replied. She turned on the bedside lamp. "You hungry?"

I shook my head, retrieving my package of pantyhose from a drawer. "No -- still full from breakfast. Where's Michael?"

"Brooding in his room."

"Is he going to be able to handle tonight?" I asked softly.

"He's a Coldsmith-Briggs. Of course he will. It's expected."

I pulled the nylons up over my legs. "And what about you and Elizabeth? How are you guys holding up?"

"Better than Michael is."

"I'll knock on his door when I'm done dressing."

"Don't be surprised if he doesn't answer. Key to the door between your two rooms is in the top right hand drawer of the dresser," Evelyn informed me. "Looks like you don't need anything, so I'll see you downstairs."

"OK."

She left and I finished dressing. I removed the gris-gris bag I'd been given and placed it in my suitcase. Then I brushed my teeth, applied my makeup and left my room to knock on Michael's door. As Evelyn had predicted there was no answer. But when I tried the door latch, it was open.

Michael was sitting on his bed, tumbler of scotch in his hand. He was half-dressed in a black suit, his tie was not yet tied, and he looked awful. I looked at the decanter on the table by the window and licked my lips. It was more than half-consumed. Damn it.

"Michael?" I approached him gingerly. "How're you coming? Are you almost dressed?"

He turned his drawn face toward me and I could smell the liquor. I looked from his face to the tumbler in his hand. Then, my hands slipped over his, removing the glass and placing it out of his reach.

"Are you drunk?" I asked softly.

"I'm just this side of it," he answered dully.

"Have you eaten since breakfast?"

He shook his head. I spied the intercom near the bed and saw the button marked kitchen. I pressed it.

"Yes, Sir?" came a clipped voice. I didn't know who I was talking to.

"This is Ms. Sands," I said distinctly. "Would you please bring up some oatmeal and toast for Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs? And a pot of coffee."

"Right away, Miss," came the agreeable voice.

Oatmeal and toast would help absorb the alcohol remaining in his stomach and wouldn't upset it. The coffee would at least make him alert. We didn't have a lot of time before people started arriving.

"I'm not going down there." Michael's voice was hard.

I knelt in front of him. "Yes, Michael, you are."

"I can't do it."

"You have to do it. Your family is counting on you."

He swayed a little. "Liz and Evelyn can handle the guests."

"You have to be there." I was adamant.

He jerked away angrily. "I'm NOT going."

My temper flared. "Like hell you're not! Whatever problems you might have with your father, you forget about them now! You need a show of solidarity! Whether you give a flying one about your father or not, you have two sisters down there who need you to show up! This isn't about you, Michael! It's about that wonderful woman who was your mother! It's about family -- !"

"WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?!" His shout was like a thunder-crack. "What would you know about any of it?! What do you know about -- " He stopped, as if realizing what he was saying. My heart was pounding in my chest and I fought the tears that rose in my eyes. Tears for both him and me.

My voice was shaky. "I know more than you think I do, Michael," I said hollowly. "And I wish to God I'd had one other person in my family I could've turned to in my grief when my father died."

"Oh, God. I'm sorry." His hand brushed my hair. There were tears in his eyes. "I didn't mean to take it out on you, angel . . ."

"It's all right, Michael." Gently, my fingers crept up to button his shirt and to tie his tie. My eyes met his. "Claire Coldsmith-Briggs raised a remarkable man. She was so proud of you, Michael."

"The two of you talked when you met last year obviously." He sounded a little bit more like the Michael I knew.

"Yeah. We talked a lot about you." I smiled softly. "You were the apple of her eye, Michael."

He swiped at a tear. "I intended to have you here for support, not for babysitting." He heaved a breath. "I didn't mean for you to have to go through this right after a mission. I heard what happened . . ."

"Stop worrying about it. I have," I growled. "Right now, all you need to concentrate on is getting through tonight. I'll stay with you every minute if you need for me to. I'll do whatever you say. If you want me near you, I'll stay near you. If you want me to mind my own business, I'll mind my own business."

"I love having you by my side. You know that." This was a quickly-sobering Michael that spoke.

Five minutes later, one of the kitchen staff brought up a silver tray with oatmeal and toast and coffee. I thanked the maid and then coaxed Michael to eat. He did so reluctantly at first, but then saw the wisdom of it. By ten minutes of seven, he was brushing his teeth and then throwing on his jacket. He now looked and acted quite presentable.

The visitation was held in the family chapel, found on the west side of the house and accessed from the huge living area when one first walked in the front door. With strait-laced decorum, Michael introduced me to his father, Michael Senior, as his close friend and a top-notch operative. The man gave me the once-over, then courteously took my hand in his.

"It was good of you to come, Rachel," he acknowledged gently.

Michael Senior was almost the spitting image of Michael Junior. The resemblance was amazing to say the least. The bloodlines were strong, there was no doubt about that.

"I was glad I could be here, Sir," I replied. "Please accept my condolences."

"Thank you." He nodded to Michael coolly. "It was regrettable missing you at lunch. I'd looked forward to meeting you and talking with you."

"Perhaps we'll have a chance to do so later on," I suggested smoothly. "I would sincerely enjoy that."

As we made our way into the chapel, Michael leaned down and said in my ear, "Be careful, Rachel. That's my father, the letch."

I looked up into his eyes. "I'm already spoken for."

A smile actually touched his lips. "I'm glad you remembered that." It faded as we approached the front of the chapel where Claire lay in state. I heard Michael's indrawn breath.

"I'm here," I told him as we came ever closer. "I won't leave your side."

Michael extricated his arm from mine and placed it around my waist. In turn, I placed mine around his waist as we stopped, joining his sisters in front of the coffin. Claire looked very well. But that spark of life that was Claire was gone. I was greatly saddened to see her so, but even more concerned for her son. Elizabeth and Evelyn looked over at Michael. Discreetly, I moved out of Michael's embrace so he could hold his sisters. The display of sibling affection was beautiful but sad. They spoke in low tones for a few minutes, then Michael turned to me and held out his hand, and we made our way back up the side aisle to the front to greet the guests as they came to pay their respects.

I detached myself from the family after Evelyn introduced me to her husband and two boys; I stood near the registry, making sure all who came in signed and dated it. When asked, I answered that I was a friend of the family. I carefully took note of names and when the occasion called for it, made quiet introductions. Many government people were present and some celebrities. It was a veritable Who's Who. All the while, I kept an eye on Michael.

It was a little after eleven when the last guest had gone. Michael Senior snuffed out the candles and closed the doors. He accepted kisses from Liz and Evelyn and walked with them to the front of the house. I followed with Michael.

"It's been a long day for you," Michael commented softly. "How're you doing?"

"I'm fine. You, however, need some rest," I told him.

"I'm not looking forward to tomorrow." His voice was flat.

"I know." I squeezed his waist. "I'm here if you need me."

"You always are."

I saw Michael to his bedroom door. He leaned over and placed a tender kiss on my mouth. "Thank you, Rachel. You've been my savior tonight."

"I didn't do anything," I protested gently, returning the kiss with a light one of my own.

"You've done plenty. Helping me keep my sanity is just one of them." He traced a finger along my jaw. "Goodnight, love."

I watched him shut the door, a little disappointed because I wanted to hold him that night, to try and absorb some of his pain. But, I realized, Michael needed to be alone with his grief. He needed to regroup for the ordeal of the funeral tomorrow. I couldn't hope to help him with that.

And so I went to bed that night and I did the only thing I could do. I cried for Michael's, Evelyn's, Liz's and Michael Senior's loss. I cried for myself, too. Because in my eyes, Claire had been a wonderful woman who'd raised a marvelous man. I regretted that she would now not be physically present to see her son grow even more.

I took comfort in the fact that as long as she was present in Michael's heart, she would never be gone from him.

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

Good Friday morning was a bit overcast, but there had been no prediction for rain in the news. Most of the same people showed up that had the night before, with new additions. The chapel was packed -- so packed that extra chairs had to be set up in the back. Michael insisted that I sit up front with the family during the service and wouldn't take no for an answer. Even Evelyn and Liz insisted. So I sat by Michael through the ceremony and the eulogy, my hand always in his except for when he rose to speak to the congregation.

His voice was low, but strong. He ended his heartfelt speech saying, "My mother had an abiding belief in an Afterlife. Sometimes I would laugh at that, because logic dictates that dead is dead, and there isn't any coming back. My laughter is coming back to haunt me, now. Mother was right about so many things. She was right that if you parachute from the second story window, you'll probably break your arm. She was right that if you didn't take your nap in the afternoon, you'd be asleep during dinner. She was right that if you dated more than one girl at one time, that one girl would find out, then the other girl would find out, and you'd end up with no date at the school's Winter Festival." A ripple of soft chuckles went through the assemblage. "Mother knew a lot about life. So I guess it only stands to reason she'd know about the Afterlife." He paused. "I found this passage in a book last night that I think sums mother's philosophy up." He took a small index card out of his pocket. "'Life is eternal. Love is immortal and Death is only a horizon, and a horizon is only the limit of our sight.'" He looked out at the sea of faces before him. "Mother, if you're standing on the horizon and watching this from a distance, I'm here today to tell you -- you were always right. About everything. And today, I know you were right about Death. It's only a mile-marker on the road."

My eyes were wet with tears as he came down from the podium and I put an arm around Liz who sniffed audibly. When he returned to his spot beside me, his father looked over at him with unmistakable pride and fondness. I'd hoped Michael caught it, even if he didn't acknowledge it.

When the ceremony ended, the casket was lifted from the bier by the pallbearers. Michael Senior followed it out, then Liz and Evelyn, then Michael and myself. I gripped Michael's hand tightly as we made our way from the chapel to the back of the house. Everyone followed at a slow walk to the family cemetery. I was shocked when I saw the number of security milling about, some with dogs and all with weapons. I looked over at Michael, and his eyes met mine.

"Trust me, it's necessary," he said in a low voice. "Too many celebrity-seekers and newshounds."

The unwelcome noise of news helicopter rotors broke into the somber mood. It was hateful. Why couldn't people just be left alone to their grief? Why did a media circus have to be made out of EVERYTHING?

Claire was interred with some last prayers from the minister, who then announced to one and all that there would be a buffet served back at the house. On the way back, people stopped to shake hands with members of the family. Not once did Michael's arm stray from around me. When we reached the house, I told him I could help with serving.

"We have house staff for that," Michael reminded me quietly. "Besides, I need you with me. Please."

"All right, Michael," I acquiesced almost meekly.

The gathering was indeed low-key and somber. It lightened a bit with fond remembrances, but it was still hard on all of them. I watched Michael's father as he dutifully mixed with the many people there. He was hurting as badly as any of them. It could be seen in his eyes. No matter what might have happened in the past, or with the family, there was no doubt this man loved Claire. I rose from the sofa and Michael took my hand.

"Where are you going?" he asked, frowning.

"I'll be back," I promised, squeezing his fingers.

He looked tired, I thought, as I approached the older man. He looked up from the chair he was sitting in and I squatted down by his side, taking his hand. "Can I get anything for you, Sir?" I asked gently. "A cup of coffee, maybe? A sandwich?"

The weathered features seemed to soften. "How good of you to ask, Ms. Sands."

"Rachel, Sir," I corrected gently.

"Rachel." He squeezed my hand. "Rachel Sands." It was as if he had come to a decision. "Rachel, come take a walk with me. Will you?"

"I'd be happy to."

He rose and tucked my arm into his and we walked to the grounds in back, where some people milled about. We walked as far as the rose garden and sat down on a bench for two. Not a word had been said up to that point.

"So you're one of my son's newest operatives," he said. "I have to say, Michael manages to find the prettiest, most brilliant women."

I smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, Sir."

"Please. Call me Mike." He looked about the as-yet-to-bloom garden. "I'll have to hire an extra gardener to take care of this now that Claire's gone. The one we have can barely keep up with the grounds." He paused, then looked back at me. "Michael introduced you around as a friend of the family and as a close friend and operative to us. May I ask the nature of your relationship with my son?"

All of a sudden, I felt as if I was under a microscope. "What Michael told you is true, Sir -- Mike. We are very close friends. And I do work for him."

"You love my son, Ms. Sands, it's not lost upon me." His eyes were piercing. "It's in your eyes, in your face. You can't hide it." He paused, his finger touching a tendril of my hair. "You do understand how dangerous it is to love Michael, don't you? The profession he's in is hardly conducive to a solid relationship."

"I'm aware of the dangers. We don't always get to choose who we love. I could never not love Michael." My answer was rock solid.

"We love in spite of, not because of," he murmured. "That was a saying Claire always used. I hurt her terribly for years, and she still loved me. Right up to the end."

"It wasn't all bad times," I said quietly. "It couldn't have been."

"It wasn't. There were some glorious times. All throughout our marriage." He sighed. "Did Michael tell you why he despises me so much? Why he hates me?"

I hesitated. "I don't think he hates you or despises you. I think he wants to get to know you. I think he wants to have a father-son relationship with you that he didn't have when he was younger -- that you couldn't give him for whatever reason when he was growing up."

"You know I'm an alcoholic."

I nodded. "I was told, yes."

"Were you also told I used to beat the living daylights out of Michael and his mother? And even Evelyn on occasion."

"Yes." I licked my lips. "But you're recovering now. You don't drink. You've established good relationships with Evelyn and Elizabeth. You can establish one with Michael if you want to. I don't know if it will make up for the damage already done. But I do know that you'll hate yourself if you don't at least try."

"You don't know my son that well or you wouldn't say that."

"I know him quite well, Sir, in ways that might surprise you. He's pigheaded and stubborn and a real pain-in-the-ass, sometimes. But he will listen. He needs his father." I heaved a breath, knowing I was treading on extremely thin ice. "I know you don't approve of Michael's chosen profession and that it's been a bone of contention for years. But if you could put all that aside, I think you might be very pleased with the man he is. And I think you would find you have a lot to talk about. And maybe more common ground than you previously thought."

Mike pulled at his moustache -- and I knew where Michael had gotten the gesture. He looked over at me contemplatively. "You sound very sure of yourself, Rachel," he told me with a small smile. "What if you turn out to be wrong?"

"Then at least you'll have tried. That's all anyone could ask."

"You should have been a diplomat. You're damn good at it." Michael's father chuckled.

"But I like my job. I'd rather get shot at and tied to the railroad tracks," I replied with a twinkle.

About mid-afternoon, everyone was leaving. At four-twenty, the house staff was cleaning up. Everyone declined supper -- leftovers could be utilized if anyone got hungry later on. Evelyn, Liz and I were talking quietly in Mike Senior's study in front of the fireplace when Michael and his father walked in.

"Would you ladies mind if we shooed you out?" Mike queried, eyes aligning with mine. "Michael and I need to catch up."

Evelyn and Liz looked at each other in surprise. My eyes tracked from face to face. Michael's was unreadable.

"Yeah -- Liz, didn't you say there were stables here?" I asked, moving toward the door. "I'd love to go riding as soon as I change -- with your permission, Sir?"

"Feel free," Michael Senior encouraged. "And if we're still in here when you're finished with your ride, go ahead and have supper without us."

As we trailed out of the study and closed the doors behind us, Evelyn touched both Liz and myself on the arm.

"What happened?" she asked, incredulous. "That's the most polite I've seen Dad to Michael in -- nineteen years!"

"Maybe they decided to bury the hatchet?" I queried hopefully.

"Maybe not," Liz said doubtfully. "You don't understand how deep the rift goes, Rachel."

"I understand that if you start talking, no matter what your differences are, you can usually find some commonalities. And even if you can't -- you can agree to disagree."

"Did you put Dad or Michael up to this?" Evelyn asked, folding her arms.

"No. I only suggested that maybe they should talk."

"Well, then, you've managed to do what no one else has," Evelyn told me, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

We changed clothes and the three of us rode until dark. When we came back inside, the study door was still closed. We all retired to our respective rooms. I watched a little TV, then got undressed and went to bed.

Before I closed my eyes, I said a little prayer for the entire family. In the middle of it, I fell asleep.

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

I woke up suddenly, focusing on my unfamiliar surroundings. Slowly, I began to remember where I was -- that this was Michael's boyhood home and that I was sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms. A branch from one of the cherry trees scratched against the floor-to-ceiling french doors that led out onto my bedroom balcony. My nostrils flared and I rubbed a bare arm. It felt like it was going to rain. Maybe even storm. Already I could see the dark clouds skidding across the moonlit sky.

Throwing the covers off , I climbed out of bed, naked as the day I was born, padding over to the doors to look out over the lovely grounds leading to the beautiful rose garden and beyond that, the family cemetery. It was after one a.m., and the stock words "It was a dark and stormy night . . ." flitted in and out of my brain. Daringly, I opened the paned doors, letting the chill spring breeze wash over my body, moving out to the balustrade and placing my hands on the chiseled stone railing. The smell of early spring and rain was pungent -- moist dirt and moss and young grass -- and assaulted my nose as I breathed in deeply.

A flicker of movement caught my eye -- a white splash against green and granite. I stared, trying to make it out. For one brief moment, I considered a ghost; but this figure moved too stealthily to be a ghost, and I'd seen his moves before.

Michael was already halfway through the rose garden, going toward the cemetery. I looked up at the sky and heard the clap of distant thunder and the wet smell that whipped up from the northwest told me that without a doubt, it was going to rain.

"What in the world . . .?" I said aloud. "Michael . . . what are you doing?"

A pang of worry began to gnaw at me. Had the talk with his father gone badly? Had my good intentions backfired? I turned from the window and pulled open the dresser drawer, rifling through it until I came up with a garment I could don quickly -- a white nightgown as it turned out -- and not very practical for cool nights like this. I put on my slipper-shoes and went back out on the balcony, shutting one of the doors and leaving the other open a fraction, wedged open by one of my suitcases. I grabbed an extra blanket from my bed and wrapped it around myself.

Michael would catch his death out here, especially if it started raining. Outwardly, Michael had taken his mother's death like a man -- he'd been there for his sisters and his father. He'd been messed up a little in the beginning, but he'd been the strength to keep the family cemented together. That had taken a toll on him -- I'd seen that tonight at the funeral and last night at the visitation. God only knew what was going through his head at this moment, what it was making his feet turn in the direction of the family crypts.

The balcony steps led down to the back , through the patio and onto the grounds. The saturated earth gave way beneath my slippered feet, I would have to be careful or I'd end up a muddy mess if I slipped and fell. I brushed too close by one of the rose bushes and the prickly stems caught on the fringe of the blanket. I yanked it loose, continuing my journey, carefully watching where I placed my feet as I traversed across the slippery flagstones. The wind stirred up, making the ancient oaks' topmost branches bend to its will and I felt a smack on my cheek as a droplet of water assaulted my skin.

The edge of the rose garden bordered the cemetery with its iron spike gate and for a moment I stood there at the posterns, my hesitation stemming from the innate human fear of places where the dead sleep. If the night had been warmer, I told myself, and if a storm wasn't imminent, and if Michael wasn't so vulnerable, I might not even be here. I might just have gone back to bed and minded my own business. But none of the above was the case. So, taking a breath, I breached the border and walked among the tombstones with their fading identities and epitaphs.

I approached the mausoleum where Claire had been interred and stopped about twenty or so feet away. Michael was at the door, hands splayed upon it, head hung down and feet braced as if he were trying to push the sealed door open. I stood and watched for some moments, and then realized that the line of his shoulders was moving. At first I thought it was from straining to literally move the door. Then I realized that his shoulders were heaving . . . from crying.

My feet were rooted to the spot as I watched. I wanted to go to him, but a distinct intuition kept me away. This was a moment that was not meant for me -- that Michael had not meant for anyone else to see. Carefully, I slipped behind a large monument, watching from my hiding place. After a time, Michael looked up at the door, profile electrified as a streak of lightening split the sky asunder. He pounded on the door with his fists and the lump grew in my throat. Squeezing my eyes shut, I turned away. It hurt to see Michael in such pain. I knew what he was feeling. I also knew that no matter how much someone tries to comfort you, grief is something you have to move through yourself. The trick is to move through it -- not around it. If you move around it, you never accept it. Finally, I peeked around the corner again. Michael had one hand on the door, rubbing the cool stone. When he turned around, I moved from behind the monument and deliberately into his line of sight.

"Rachel!" His eyes were wide in surprise. The rain had started, and I was sure his tears were mixed with it, so it was safe to approach. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought I heard someone go outside. With a storm coming in, I couldn't imagine why." Well, I hadn't heard him, I'd seen him, but his room was right next to mine, so the story stuck. Unless he'd never gone to bed to begin with.

"You saw me come out here?" His face was guarded.

"I just got here now," I lied. "The wind woke me up. I looked out the window and I saw . . . someone. I was pretty sure it was you." I looked up at the sky. "It worried me that you were out here. It looks like it could be a nasty one."

As if in prophecy, the winds accelerated, the clouds opened up and a deluge dumped on us. Michael moved over to my side and I held up the blanket so we could both huddle under it.

"You're going to catch your death in that," he said in my ear as we half-ran down the path to the gate.

Once through the gate, the rain slackened, but just as we broke through the rose garden and ran two thirds of the way over the grounds, the skies let loose again.

"My outside door is open," I said as we scrambled up the side steps to the second floor balcony of my room.

He followed me inside, kicking my suitcase out of the way and closing the other door securely. I turned on the light on the nightstand and Michael undid the curtains, letting them drop over the windows in a silent blanket of green velvet.

I flung the drenched blanket over a quilt stand to let it dry, then disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a couple of bath towels.

"Get out of that," I said, my hands already stripping off Michael's light sweater. His skin was clammy. "Good God, it's going to be a miracle you don't catch pneumonia."

"Listen to you. You were wearing a lot less than I was, angel," he contradicted.

"Your skin is like ice!" My hands went up and down his arms, trying to increase the circulation.

It was a moment or two before I realized how he was staring down at me and I could feel my body blush, starting at my cheeks and moving downward in a flood. I started moving away, but Michael's arms encircled me so that I couldn't.

"Rachel, would you . . ." He hesitated, then turned away, arms dropping from me.

Instinctively, I reached a hand out to him. "Michael." He stopped abruptly when my fingertips brushed his bare shoulder. Carefully, I came up behind him. "It's all right. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing," he replied hoarsely. He moved from under my hand and yanked open the door that separated our rooms, closing it shut behind him with a decided click.

For a few moments I stood there in the middle of the room in my dripping wet nightgown. With a sigh, I picked up my discarded bag and pushed it aside, going back into the adjoining bathroom to wash off with some hot water from the tap. I stripped off the wet nightgown and placed it over the shower rod after wringing it out. Then, I emerged into the bedroom again. Much as I hated it, I decided perhaps wearing a nightgown tonight would not be a bad idea, considering the fact I might end up with a hell of a cold tomorrow. I didn't have nightclothes that amounted to much -- just another filmy one like the first one, only this one was black. Hastily, I donned it.

My eyes inevitably went to the closed door between our rooms. The last thing on my mind was sex and I sincerely hoped Michael realized that when I'd reached out to him. My heart ached because Michael's heart ached. I wanted to hold him and comfort him, speak soothing words against his forehead. Something I'd craved to have done to me when my father had died. Something I never got because I was it. No other living relatives to share my grief with.

Maybe he hadn't locked the door, I thought. Even so, I might not be welcome. In such situations, it was hard to tell just where the line was. I didn't want to intrude on Michael's grief, but at the same time, I wanted him to realize that there was someone around to be strong for him if he needed it.

"How does one convey that?" I asked aloud softly in the big room. "How can I let him know that I'm here if he needs me?" Should I breach the barricade he'd thrown up or stay behind it? I was just about to turn the light off on the nightstand and go to bed when the interconnecting door to my room opened with a hesitant knock.

"Rachel?" Michael's voice was quiet as he peeked out from behind the door.

I dropped my arm, leaning up. "Yes, Michael."

He looked at me in hesitation. He was wearing silk pajama pants and a long robe loosely over it. For the first time since I'd met this man, he seemed at a total loss for words. Again, I slipped out of bed, padding over to the door where he stood.

"I . . ." He stopped again, frustrated.

I was looking into his dark eyes when I took his large hand in mine. Gently, I walked through his door as he pulled it shut and followed me over to his enormous four-poster, an antique carved from ebony wood. We stood together for a moment, facing each other, like a naïve couple on their honeymoon.

Gently, I lifted the robe from his shoulders and draped it over a chair. He still made no move to get into bed, so I went first, moving beneath the covers and pulling them back for him. Finally, after much hesitation, Michael followed, pulling the bedclothes over him and switching off the bedside lamp, plunging us into total darkness. I could still see his outline as he leaned up and over me, eyes visible in the dark as he stared down.

"I'm . . . I''m not asking for sex . . ." He faltered again.

My heart pounded. Not because of his close proximity, not because I wanted him. Because he looked so much like a lost little boy and I wanted to at least offer some form of comfort for his loss. I held my arms out.

"I know." My voice was as soft as his had been. "Come here, Michael." I held out my arms.

Almost eagerly he slipped into them, resting his head against my breasts, both arms going around me. I held him closely, laying my leg over his as he slipped it between my knees. His breath spilled hotly over my chest and I stroked his hair soothingly, lips lost in the hair on the top of his head.

"I like that. What is it you're humming?" he whispered.

I stopped abruptly. I hadn't even realized I'd been doing it. Mentally, I went over the tune in my head, then identified it.

"Deep River," I said quietly.

"I like it," he murmured again, nestling even deeper in my embrace.

So, I hummed it softly. I was halfway through the chorus on the fourth time around when I was pretty sure Michael was asleep, so I finished it out, then lay back. Trying to ask me to comfort him must have been enormously difficult for Michael to do, I thought. He'd had no clue how to ask for what he wanted. Would he have asked it from one of his other ops? I wondered.

I decided it didn't matter. I was glad to be here to offer what I could. Michael needed me and that was all that was at issue.

"Rachel?" His voice was soft.

His voice startled me. "Yes, Michael?"

"I want to thank you for everything. Including what you said to my father."

I was quiet for a long moment. "He loves you, Michael."

"Thanks to you, I know that now." He nuzzled my ear. "I love you." Then, he nestled comfortably against me once more.

And despite the week's events and the day's funeral, there was a certain peace that stole over us at that moment. I could feel it in the way that Michael's body relaxed familiarly against mine, the way he drew breath in evenly. I must have been awake for an hour just staring up at the ornate ceiling, watching the shadows play across the plaster. Then, a heaviness claimed my eyelids and I fell asleep, breathing in the clean scent of Michael's hair.

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END PART IV

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Susan Rossi, Webmistress
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June 2, 2000