Michael didn’t speak a word. He pulled Nikita behind him at a breakneck pace until they were outside their bedroom door. When her back was up against the door, Michael leaned on her, slipping the key into the lock. As soon as she felt the door give way under her weight, Nikita started to back up, but Michael was way ahead of her.

The door was already closed and locked behind them by the time their bodies hit the bed. Michael began kissing Nikita even as he struggled to free them of their clothing. Mewing like a kitten, Nikita sought his mouth as she tore off her sweater. Moments later, the pile of clothing next to the bed reflected the state of their undress.

Settling comfortably against her body, Michael continued to caress Nikita. His fingers found her face, and finally, he slowed down long enough to smile contentedly. "Tu es la mienne." He kissed her, the taste of him sweet on her lips. "Heureusement."

Hands splayed across Michael’s back, Nikita opened her mouth, allowing him entrance. But when she heard him start murmuring to her in French, she giggled. He felt her mouth curve under his and pulled away, studying her.

"What’s so funny?"

"You."

"I’m funny?"

"Yeah."

His green eyes darkened as he nipped lightly at her mouth. "Tell me why."

"You started speaking French to me and--" She stopped, hesitant to tell him just what wayward thought might have crossed her mind.

"And?" He nudged her with his growing arousal.

She hid her face, blushing prettily. He pushed the curtain of pale blonde hair aside with his nose and mouth. "What?"

She bit her lip. "It’s just that I thought...you were going to say...you love me..."

He latched onto her mouth with new zeal. "I didn’t get to that part yet."

Her blue eyes shone with a clarity he had rarely seen. "You’re not worried about infection control anymore?"

Michael laughed. "I think that’s Neil’s area." He nuzzled her neck. "Shall we get him in here to evaluate?"

Nikita licked his mouth saucily. "He does know what things take priority. Maybe we should."

Michael wrapped his arms around his willing wife, trading wet, open-mouthed kisses with her until she shivered in anticipation. "Would you like to rethink your position?"

Nikita trailed a wet finger across Michael’s mouth. "I think we should rethink yours." With that, she forced him to relinquish control and reversed their positions. Sitting astride him now, she pulled her hair back, then let it spill slowly down her body, like liquid gold.

Possessively running his hands over her abdomen, which showed virtually no visible sign of the baby growing within, Michael contemplated the picture his wife made. So lean, yet so feminine. So firm, yet like silk to his touch. So wet. He could feel the heat of her pressed against his groin, though their bodies were not as yet joined. Cupping a breast in each hand, he gently pulled her closer.

Whispering in her ear, he asked, "How long are you going to make me wait, ma belle lionne?" She smiled mysteriously, dragging his roughened fingertips over her nipples until they hardened to sharp points. "Until neither one of us can hold out any longer," she finally whispered back.

"I’m yours to command," he rasped, his hands running up and down the outsides of her thighs.

"Ooh, I think I like the sound of that." Nikita bent her head to kiss him, and her hair left its silken trail across his chest, tantalizing him with its feel.

His green eyes grew hot as they feasted upon her bounty. Her hands found his nipples first, then her mouth. Sliding down his body, she realized that his arousal was such that going slow was no longer an option. When he felt her wet heat around him, in such intimate contact, he tried to hold back, but it was almost instantly beyond his control.

His hands slid around her waist, resting on her back, above her buttocks. He was inside the very heart of her. Nikita arched above him, like a proud Valkyrie keening her war cry. The feel of her, like a silken glove that fit just right, held him suspended for mere seconds before he peaked, then began his descent.

"Oh! Michael!" she managed to get out before she collapsed against his body. "I love you," she said weakly, her insides still aquiver.

Michael wrapped an arm around her shoulder as he kissed her. "Now I’m getting to your favorite part, doucette," he said bemusedly. "Je t’aime."

She laughed sleepily, her head snuggled under his chin. "Je t’aime aussi."

Declan literally tucked Birkoff into bed. He pulled the covers up to Birkoff’s chin and smiled. "You look like a little boy up to his eyebrows in blankets."

He bent over and kissed Birkoff, resisting the urge to linger on his lips. "I’ll be right here if you need me."

Birkoff was too tired and emotionally drained to argue with Declan. But what he wanted, more than anything, was to go to sleep and wake up to find that everything was back to normal. But he didn’t want to be alone in bed. He wanted Declan to climb into bed beside him, get under the covers, and hold him. Nothing more. He just wanted to be held. But he couldn’t seem to find the words to say it.

Declan settled into a chair next to the bed. He didn’t like being separated from his lover this way, but Birkoff looked so fragile, so traumatized by events, Declan was afraid to touch him.

That was when Declan realized that Birkoff wasn’t asleep. His eyes were wide open, staring at Declan wistfully, the tears barely dry on his cheeks. "What is it, Sey?"

"Dec..." Birkoff said, his voice husky from all those tears and all that emotion.

Declan didn’t know how he knew what to do. He just did. He thanked God for helping him see beyond the surface at that moment. Without saying a word, Declan pulled off his boots, threw back the covers and jumped into the bed.

After taking one more good look at his lover’s anguished face, Declan roughly pulled him into his arms. Birkoff immediately released the tears he’d been holding onto. In moments, the front of Declan’s shirt was totally saturated. "Sey, you’re going to make yourself sick, weeping so."

"I’m sorry, Declan," Birkoff sniffled. "I forgot you don’t like me being so sensitive," he sobbed.

Declan’s heart ached so badly, he could hardly stand it. "Would you please forget I ever said that?" he hissed. "God, Sey, you have the memory of an elephant for things that haunt you and no memory at all for the things that should bring you joy."

Declan closed his eyes tightly, willing himself not to break down and cry beside his lover. That wouldn’t help Birkoff at all. It would only make him feel even more out of control than he already was.

"I just want you to hold me. Please, Declan."

"I am, Sey, I am." Declan’s embrace constricted even further. His white-knuckled grip seemed to anchor Birkoff to the real world. Declan wasn’t about to let go of him.

"I feel like I’m coming apart inside, Dec..." Birkoff whispered. "And you’re the only thing keeping me together."

Declan shivered at the quiet intensity with which Birkoff uttered those words. Just how long could Declan keep Birkoff safe? "Maybe you need someone else, Sey. Someone besides me."

"No!" Birkoff shouted, starting to cry fresh tears. "I want you. I don’t want anyone else."

"What if I can’t handle it when it gets really bad, Sey?"

That was an admission Birkoff never expected to hear from Declan. But it didn’t matter. "You’re the only one who understands what I’m going through. All you have to do is hold me, Dec. That’s all, I swear."

A glittering teardrop hung precipitously off one of Birkoff’s extraordinary eyelashes. Declan was mesmerized by it. His instincts compelled him to stay close, to hold him, to love him. But what if it wasn’t enough? He hated second-guessing himself.

Declan abruptly released Birkoff. Birkoff stared at his lover in abject horror. "What--What are you doing, Dec?"

Backing carefully off the bed, Declan eventually stood up, very slowly. "Playing the odds."

Complete puzzlement formed in Birkoff’s now midnight-black eyes. "What?"

"I’m no therapist, Sey. I’m just the bloody great idiot responsible for doing this to you."

"No! Declan, no! I don’t want you to blame yourself!"

"Too late," Declan said softly, his heart in his throat. "Y’see, it’s the one thing I’m truly good at, Sey. Blaming myself."

Birkoff reached out for Declan and missed, falling onto his face on the bed. His shoulders heaving, it was obvious that he was still crying. An occasional incoherent word worked its way to the surface now and again, but Birkoff’s crying was strangely silent. Declan knelt beside the bed, pulling at Birkoff’s head until he could see his face again.

Tragic eyes, those dark eyes. Declan stopped trying to analyze his way through the situation. He could be astonishingly logical sometimes. But this wasn’t one of those times. His heart was driving him now. And his heart said there was no logic here. What Birkoff felt wasn’t logical. It was emotional.

Birkoff needed Declan to be the one who healed him. Suddenly it seemed completely unreasonable to fly in the face of that.

Declan slowly got off his knees, and he felt, rather than saw, Birkoff’s eyes follow his every movement. He pulled his now-wet shirt over his head, loosening his long red hair in the process. Discarding the shirt, he unbuckled his jeans and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. When he was naked, he returned to Birkoff’s side, leaning on the bed only to pull off the remainder of Birkoff’s clothing.

Birkoff stared at him. "Declan, what are you trying to do? Make us both want something we can’t have?"

Declan cupped Birkoff’s chin in his hands. His silvery-grey eyes shadowed temporarily, but eventually cleared. "I don’t want you to think. Or feel. Or even react. To anything."

"Declan," Birkoff cried, "this isn’t going to work."

"Maybe not. But I need to do it anyway." Declan’s face now echoed Birkoff’s pain. "Cause, dammit, I love you," Declan said fiercely.

His fingers flicking restlessly against Birkoff’s pale, soft skin, Declan kissed him. Not hard. Just enough to let him know he was there. He rubbed his wet cheek against Birkoff’s equally wet cheek. Good, maybe their tears would mingle and make a magical potion that would make everything right again.

Declan’s long slender fingers threaded through his partner’s thick, dark, shoulder-length hair. He kissed the side of his face, his temple, and his nose before descending to his mouth again. Catching Birkoff unaware, Declan managed to open his mouth under his.

Suddenly Birkoff groaned. Whether from pain or from pleasure was unclear. "Declan, why do you want to hurt me like this?"

"I’m not hurting you, love. I’m telling you how much I love you. There’s a difference."

"Not to me," Birkoff shuddered.

"That’s cause you’re not listening. Y’hear that, Sey? That’s my heart talking to yours."

"Declan, I know you love me."

"But your body doesn’t."

Declan sighed. "It’s like when we first slept together, Sey. You were too shy to let your body respond. I had to coax you into--"

Birkoff closed his eyes. "Please--"

Declan’s eyes fell before the sight of Birkoff’s tortured face. He tried. At least, he tried.

"Just hold me, Dec. Okay?" Birkoff sounded as if his nerves were stretched as tautly as they could go without breaking.

"Yeah," Declan whispered.

Declan lay on his back in bed, staring hopelessly at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t move. Birkoff had finally cried himself to sleep. Even now, his body jerked restlessly from time to time, as if something disturbed his unconscious mind. Declan’s arms were wrapped around Birkoff’s body, and Birkoff himself lay across Declan’s chest, his head against Declan’s heart.

The one beautiful, unspoiled thing in his life. And he had to go and ruin it. Declan’s eyes filled with tears, and the ceiling blurred. He’d said it didn’t matter. Liar. God mocked him. He sent him someone to love, someone who could truly love and accept him, and then made Declan responsible for destroying him.

Declan was afraid. Afraid of letting go of his own emotions. He knew he held such anger inside, he could be dangerous. He would never dream of directing it at Birkoff or anyone else in the family. But something deep inside him was struggling to come to the surface, and he was afraid if it finally broke free, it would hurt both of them.

He didn’t want to cry. His brow furrowed with the effort of keeping such massive angst in abeyance. But a tear trickled down his cheek, and the wetness itself was a catalyst for a strong emotional reaction. And once it started to come, there was no stopping it.

He bit his lip until it bled. Still he cried. Quietly. His chest moving up and down, Declan feared that Birkoff would wake up. But Birkoff slept on, unaware of his partner’s own fear and anxiety. Declan stroked Birkoff’s hair, his fingers shaking, his lower lip trembling. "I love you, Sey," he kept whispering over and over, as if it were an incantation that would both enchant his lover and remove the curse he was under.

Eventually Declan succumbed to the emotional toll on his body. He slept, erratically at first, then for longer periods, finally falling into a very deep sleep. Ironically, that was when Birkoff woke. He stared at Declan’s tear-ravaged face and gasped. "Dec..." he whispered, his long fingers searching for a spot unblemished by a tear.

Uncertain what to do, Birkoff studied Declan’s face in repose. He was indeed tragically beautiful. Now even more so. His lower jaw covered in faint stubble. His remarkable eyes hidden from view. So beautiful, this one who loved him. Maybe this was God’s way of telling Birkoff that he didn’t deserve that kind of beauty in his life. Maybe he didn’t. But he would die trying to preserve it. And Declan.

In one loving, unselfish act, Birkoff managed to transform himself. He didn’t think about what would happen. Or not happen. He merely let go. As Declan had asked him to. His heart wanted to embrace Declan’s. No matter what flesh might separate them.

Birkoff raised himself up on his elbows and stared down at Declan. Even in sleep, Declan’s mouth was desirable. Parted halfway open, his tongue just peeking out. Birkoff pressed his mouth to Declan’s. Heartened to know that the world had not exploded in a cataclysmic burst of thunder and lightning, Birkoff continued his ministrations.

His tongue flicked out, tentatively touching Declan’s lips, and Declan sighed in his sleep. His own thick, dark hair fanning out around his face, Birkoff kissed Declan again. Declan moved, his hand brushing his face, as if he knew something was there, but not what.

Birkoff froze until he was sure that Declan slept on. This was his gift to Declan. He didn’t want it spoiled by more tears and recriminations. He kissed his way down Declan’s neck, so lightly Declan never stirred. He trailed his hair down the center of Declan’s body until he reached his groin. Before his mouth even touched Declan, Birkoff could see the effect he had on him. Declan was clearly aroused.

Birkoff didn’t think. The sight of Declan that way touched him inside. In ways that were not merely physical. Don’t feel. Don’t react. He chanted to himself, a mantra guaranteed to keep his mind focused on only one thing. Declan.

When his mouth first brushed Declan’s skin, there was a moment when Birkoff thought Declan would wake up. It passed. Eventually, Birkoff grew bolder, his mouth more daring, and Declan did wake. But not in time to stop the inevitable.

Declan gasped, a fragment of a fantastical dream still in his head at the moment of completion. When his eyes came open, they were the color of smoke, dark and curling tendrils of smoke, the kind that emanated from a fire of considerable intensity. A moan still on his lips, he stared at Birkoff, transfixed by the sight of his lover still hovering over the embers of his arousal. "Sey?" Declan whispered. "What did you do?"

"Something I should have done a long time ago," he whispered back.

Declan trembled. Birkoff felt it. He moved before Declan could even react. Sliding along Declan’s body, Birkoff settled against him, not uncomfortably at all. Framing his face with his hands, he kissed Declan yet again, knowing that Declan must taste himself. The thought came into his head unbidden, then was gone.

Declan groaned in response to that kiss and abruptly became the aggressor again. Sitting astride his partner’s body, Declan kissed him hungrily, as if being sated once were not even close to enough. It was a long time before either of them realized that Birkoff was actually responding physically to Declan’s advances.

Birkoff buried his face at the base of Declan’s throat, muffling the cry that came as he reached climax. His long, slender fingers entangled in Declan’s hair, he quivered under Declan, the fine tremors that wracked his body gradually fading. He couldn’t speak.

But Declan could. "Sweet Jesus, Sey. You’re a bloody miracle."

Birkoff wanted to protest, but he had to agree. But before he could say a word, Declan cut him off with a kiss so tender, it rocked both of them to the core.

"But you’re my miracle, Sey," Declan exclaimed, tears of joy in his eyes this time.

Michael wasn’t sure what woke him. The carefree laughter of his children or the cold spot in bed where his wife was supposed to be. He rolled over onto his side, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Kita?"

As if on cue, a pale blonde head popped up. From the floor.

"Um...what are you doing on the floor, doucette?"

"I fell out of bed?" she asked helplessly.

He gave her a pull-the-other-leg type of look. "Run that by me again?"

"I was searching for a contact lens?" she offered.

His green eyes narrowed. "You don’t wear contact lenses, Kita." He knew he was stating the obvious, but he couldn’t resist tweaking her.

"I was looking for a clean pair of underwear."

"On the floor?" he said incredulously.

"Well, you know what an indifferent housekeeper I am, Michael." Nikita wouldn’t meet his eyes. She knew what a lie that was. A person could eat off any of her floors.

"Is there something down there that you don’t want me to see, doucette?"

Nikita pondered. "Well...."

"Does this have anything to do with Halloween? The party? Your costume, perhaps?"

Nikita’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut just as quickly. "Not exactly, Michael."

Michael shimmied across the bed on his stomach until he was near the edge of the mattress, facing Nikita. He smiled peacefully and waited. "How not exactly?"

She bit her lip, a dead giveaway that Nikita was either anxious or trying unsuccessfully to hide something. "Uh..."

"Is it a secret?" Michael looked amused by his wife’s discomfiture.

"Sorta."

Michael laughed. "God, it’s like pulling teeth to get a straight answer! You weren’t this good at evading my questions back at Section One."

"I’ve had more practice since we left." Michael frowned. Nikita grimaced, flinging a hand carelessly through her hair. "Okay, that didn’t come out right."

Michael nodded. "Can I help you up off the floor? Or do you like it down there?"

"Umm..." Nikita rolled her eyes.

"If you have to think about it, I’m going back to sleep." With that, Michael rolled back to his original position in bed, punching his pillow for good measure before settling.

Clambering across the bed on all fours, Nikita tried to pretend she wasn’t naked. Or embarrassed. Being found naked on the floor at 6 AM was somewhat surrealistic, she had to admit. She tapped Michael on the shoulder. Quite politely.

He glanced back over his shoulder. "What?"

"If I tell you what I was really doing, will you promise not to laugh at me?"

Michael turned to face his wife, his green eyes lighting up at the sight of her naked form this early in the morning. "I’ll try, Kita."

She clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Gee, Michael..."

"Best offer you’re going to get today. Unless...you want to offer me something else." Michael tickled her side, and she giggled, trying to slap at his arms without hurting him.

When he stopped tickling her, Nikita ran her hands along the sides of his face. "But every time I offer that, you want more."

His gaze fell to her breasts for a moment. Forcing himself to look at her face instead, he said softly, "You’re distracting me for a reason. What’s on the floor that you don’t want me to see, Kita?"

"It is part of my costume, Michael. But I wanted to model it for you...privately." Fidgeting nervously, Nikita began twirling a long strand of pale blonde hair between her fingers.

"I like the sound of that, doucette. So when do I get to see this...unveiling?" Suddenly it became imperative that he touch her, feel her skin, kiss her lips.

"That’s the problem."

That got his attention. He stopped in mid-kiss. "Why?"

She almost wailed in frustration, wringing her hands furiously. "I wanted to surprise you. I bought this wonderfully sheer piece of lingerie...."

His hands fell away from her face. "To wear in public? In front of our family?"

"Noo..." she said. "For the private party after..."

"We’re invited to Declan’s private party?"

"Noo...aren’t you listening?"

"Then whose party?"

"Ours."

"We’re having a private party?" Now he was really confused.

"Yesss...."

"Just us?"

"Yesss...."

"What are we...um...doing at this private affair?" Michael leaned forward and licked at her lips. She was so surprised, she forgot about breathing.

"Well..." she said, with a definite trace of mischief, echoing what Michael said to her the last time they made love. "I’m yours to command."

***

Laughter. He heard the laughter again. When Michael re-surfaced, it was the first thing he noticed. He slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom. Nikita stirred for a moment, then went back to sleep.

He managed to get dressed without waking his wife. As he stepped on the landing, he heard more laughter. Determined to investigate, he trod lightly down the stairs to the sitting room, where the only television in the chateau resided.

Michael himself never watched TV, except for the occasional documentary, and to be frank, he didn’t understand other people’s fascination with it. Perhaps because he was not raised on TV, he didn’t expect TV to be the center of existence some families thought it was. And in his house, it wasn’t. But he suspected that Birkoff was the one who introduced the twins to cartoons.

Only this was not a cartoon they were watching. Faith and her brother Chris were transfixed by a bear and a vampire. There was something called an Oscar, too. Michael rested a hand on Faith’s shoulder, meaning only to glance at the TV.

Five minutes later, he was sitting on the floor, between Faith and Chris. Instead of asking his children how they got downstairs, he was watching the fuzzy bear with a hat talk to the vampire. Although the program was dubbed in French, the vampire still carried the title of Count, while the bear seemed to be Fozzie. Michael tried that out on his tongue, and Faith giggled. "Daddy! Not Fuzzy! Fozzie!" his not-quite-two-year old daughter corrected him.

"Que veut dire Fozzie, Fee?" Michael asked, puzzled.

Faith shrugged. "Fozzie est...Fozzie."

"Pourquoi Fozzie?" he asked again, this time of Chris.

"Je ne sais pas," his son answered.

The twins routinely switched back and forth between French and English now. If they were addressed in English, they responded in English. If someone spoke to them in French, they replied in French. Michael wasn’t sure they were even aware of how easily they made the transition, but he was proud of how well they spoke his language already.

"M’sieur le Comte!" Chris cried out when the vampire came on the screen again, nudging his sister to make sure she didn’t miss him.

Seemingly enthralled by the changing colors and sounds, the twins continued to watch avidly, one or the other making an effort to explain to their father what made the program so captivating. To say Michael was amazed would be an understatement. It was simply not possible that Faith or Chris could understand numbers at their age, yet they counted along with M’sieur le Comte, the friendly vampire, as if this was an everyday thing. "Un...deux...trois!"

He watched Faith hold up one finger when the vampire intoned "Un" and he shook his head. Vaguely aware that someone else had entered the room, he looked up. It was Birkoff.

Surprised to see Birkoff holding anything but a cereal bowl at this hour of the morning, Michael studied the younger man. Birkoff held Connor in his arms. Connor was a big baby for six months, but he looked so much like Chris at that age, Michael was once again struck by their resemblance to one another. "Baby!" Faith squealed excitedly, holding out her arms.

That took him aback. He was certain that they were going to have trouble with his overly competitive daughter when the new baby was born. Faith hated sharing. It was a concept she would not embrace, regardless of her level of understanding. But here she was, cheerfully greeting Connor.

Birkoff smiled at Faith. "Bebe, Fee," he said, pronouncing it in French. Birkoff sat down with the infant, wiggling his bare toes against the newly carpeted floor.

"Morning," he said light-heartedly to Michael. Now Michael knew how the children ended up downstairs. They had help. In the form of an uncle.

Michael remarked on the change in Birkoff’s appearance and general demeanor. "You look great, Birkoff. What happened to you?"

"Declan," he said softly.

Michael looked thoughtful. Birkoff seemed completely recovered.

"So, is Declan teaching you French, too?"

Birkoff shook his head negatively, his thick, dark hair brushing his shoulders as he gestured. "No." Pause. "Faith is."

"Pardon?" Michael exclaimed in French.

"She’s as smart as a whip, Michael. She translates the parts I can’t understand, and she doesn’t get tired of repeating them. Unlike some adult teachers." He rolled his expressive dark eyes.

"Was this your idea? Or Declan’s?" Michael asked, indicating the children’s educational program that was dubbed in French.

Birkoff looked surprised at the question, pausing before he answered. "You’ve never seen Sesame Street before, have you, Michael?"

Birkoff shifted Connor to his other arm and tapped Faith, who looked up expectantly. "Fee, tell Daddy about Sesame Street."

And she did.

Inquisitive minds. Intrusive hands. Inappropriate clothing. Those three things made for a very interesting combination. And on Halloween, too.

Nikita gazed at her children fondly. A few moments later, she was yanking the hairbrush through Faith’s unbelievably tangled hair. "Sweetie, what were you doing that made your beautiful hair get like this?"

As usual, she directed the question at Faith, but Chris answered. It was their latest twin trick. Ignorant of the fact that they were fraternal twins, not identical twins, Faith and Chris nevertheless acted as though they were halves of the same whole. "Mommy, me made bekfas."

"That’s nice, Chris, but what does that have to do with Faith’s hair?"

Chris demonstrated. "It was spearmint."

Nikita frowned. "You got gum in your hair, baby?" She pored through Faith’s hair feverishly looking for the errant wad.

Chris looked exasperated with his mother. "No, Mom! Spearmint! Spearmint! Like on TV!"

"Fee?" Nikita looked helplessly at her precocious daughter. Not quite two yet, the twins clearly communicated with each other on an entirely different level than anyone else.

Faith cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips. "Mom-Mom..." she drawled, "spearmints like scientisks."

Nikita repeated what Faith said, suddenly comprehending. "Scientisks? Oh, scientists? Spearmints, spearmints..." she muttered, finally realizing the twins meant experiments.

"Experiments? Chris, you were experimenting on your sister’s hair? With what?" Nikita nearly shrieked.

Chris didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what he put in Faith’s hair. But Nikita took his silence for disobedience. Before she could move, however, Michael sneaked up behind her, lifted her long pale hair off her neck and kissed her nape. He was in a curiously playful mood. Perhaps he was already anticipating what Halloween might bring.

He wrapped his arms around Nikita’s waist, his green eyes dancing with laughter. He rubbed his nose against hers. "Do you have that delightful piece of lingerie hidden away? Any word on when I might get to see it?"

"Later," she said affectionately, bestowing a kiss on his mouth. She rubbed his mouth with her thumb, in an effort to remove the lipstick she just deposited.

"Your son," Nikita said, indicating Chris. "Evidently, he thinks he’s a mad scientist this week."

Michael chuckled. "Oh, so now he’s my son? Not ours?"

"That’s right," she said. "He’s been conducting experiments on his sister."

"What kind of experiments, Kita?"

"Ask the aspiring Mr. Wizard here. I did. But he wouldn’t say anything. Definitely your son," Nikita said, a cryptic gleam in her blue eyes.

"I think I’ll let you take care of it, Kita. You’re my little problem-solver," he replied in an unbelievably unctuous voice.

"Michael, I really hate it when you patronize me," she said facetiously, sticking out her tongue at her husband.

He grinned unrepentantly at her. "I know. But you love me anyway."

"Yeah." She wound her arms around Michael’s neck and kissed him. He was so seldom this relaxed, this peaceful. He was always quieter than she was. But this was a different kind of quiet. He was more comfortable with himself, and her, than she had seen him in a long time.

"I do love you, y’know."

He smiled knowingly. "I know." He released her and as he passed by, he patted her gently on the behind. "Show me later," he said with a wink.

She winked back. "Count on it."

Back to the matter at hand. Chris was attempting to scoot away from his mother’s scrutiny, as if aware that his mother’s attention was successfully diverted by his father. But he forgot how single-minded Nikita could be. "Stop right there, Luc Christophe Samuelle."

Michael popped his head back into the room. "That’s Sam-u- elle, doucette. Your accent needs work," he said with a captivatingly light-hearted smile.

She snorted in a most unladylike manner. "I don’t have an accent."

He blinked, the bubble of laughter in his throat catching him completely by surprise. "I hate to mention this, Kita, but here in France, I’m the one without an accent."

Nikita stared at him, a smile finally beginning to curve her lips. "Touché, Michael," she said, giving him the tiny nod of the head a queen might give a member of the aristocracy.

Just as Nikita was about to yell Birkoff’s name, he appeared. Mysteriously. As if he’d been eavesdropping. "Birkoff," she said, narrowing her eyes to tiny little cat’s eye slits, "were you listening at the door?"

"Heck, no, Nikita. What makes you think that?" Birkoff looked innocent enough. But then, when didn’t he?

"Michael and I were discussing accents."

"And?"

"And he said mine needs work."

Birkoff giggled apprehensively. He had a feeling he was going to be asked to take sides in a domestic dispute...and there was no way anyone was going to spoil today. It was Halloween. Finally.

"I don’t have an accent, do I, Birkoff?" Nikita asked, trying to lead Birkoff down the garden path. But that way lay trouble.

"What am I? The United Nations?"

"No, but you must have an opinion."

"Which I’m keeping to myself, thank you very much."

"Michael, does Birkoff have an accent?" Nikita asked her husband, trying to start a major civil war now.

Michael smiled, but said non-committally, "That depends on where he is, Kita."

"Right here in our bedroom, Michael."

Michael laughed. "Right here in our bedroom, no, he doesn’t have any accent at all."

Nikita peered at her husband, blue eyes twinkling mischievously. This was fun. "What about me?"

"Strangely enough, your accent disappeared, too," Michael said pleasantly. His sole focus was getting through the day and into the night. The Halloween party loomed over the horizon like the proverbial full moon. And he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

But while the grown-ups were talking, the children were taking full advantage of their preoccupation to explore. Faith, in particular, was mesmerized by the sight of something gauzy and white sticking out from under the bed. She pulled on the end of it, and much to her surprise, it fell onto the floor.

Faith picked it up and admired it. It was so soft and so pretty. Like one of Mom-Mom’s evening dresses. Only there wasn’t very much material. Faith stretched it this way and that. She could see through it! It was almost sheer. Wrapping it around her shoulders like a stole, Faith chortled with glee. She wanted to wear this to the Halloween party!

She nudged Chris. "Chris, look! For party!"

Chris showed real interest for the first time. "Pretty, Fee. Like princess. Gimme!" Chris lunged towards his sister, and they wrestled briefly over the gauzy white material.

When a winner surfaced, it was Chris. Envious of his sister’s habit of getting all the good stuff first, only to refuse to share, Chris decided that he wanted the material. Just on general principles.

He wrapped it around him like a cloak. "Me gonna be a knight, Mommy said."

Faith’s lower lip trembled in reaction. "Me wanna be knight, too."

Chris stuck out his tongue at his sister. "You can’t! Only boys. You girl, Fee."

Faith wailed to high heaven. "Me wanna be knight! Me, too, Chris!"

Chris frowned, looking suspiciously like his father, despite the lightness of his hair. "Fee no cry. Me fix."

With that, he removed the makeshift cloak and took the material in between his two tiny hands, as if to rip it in half.

Birkoff saw what was about to happen, and though it might have given him a certain level of satisfaction to see Nikita’s lingerie treated in the same manner as Declan’s ‘special costume’, he couldn’t let it happen. "Chris, no!" he shouted.

The toddler turned his head, loosing his grip on the fabric, and it fluttered to the floor. Michael and Nikita looked from one twin to the other, then at the floor. Nikita gasped. "Oh, no!"

Birkoff bent over and picked it up. It was a bit wrinkled, but none the worse for wear. He handed it to Nikita, who stared at him in disbelief. "I can’t believe they found this. I hid it under the bed."

Michael rocked back on his heels. "So that’s what was on the floor."

"Yes." Nikita smoothed out the material, trying to see if it was still wearable. "It wasn’t meant for the general public," she said, glaring at Birkoff.

"Hey," he held up two slender hands in protest, his silver Claddagh ring glinting prominently on his left ring finger. "They’re your kids. I’m just an innocent bystander."

Declan pulled on Birkoff’s ponytail as he came up behind him. "Don’t believe a word he says, Nikita. He hasn’t been innocent since he met me," Declan declared with an insouciant grin.

Birkoff leaned on his lover. "Speak for yourself, Dec."

"Speaking of accents..." Nikita began.

Michael grabbed Chris by the hand. "And on that note, I think Chris and I need to have a talk about going into Mommy and Daddy’s things."

Nikita protested. "Aw, Michael, you’re not going to yell at him, are you?"

"Kita, I never yell," Michael stated with the patience of a saint.

She grimaced. "But sometimes when you don’t yell, it’s even scarier."

"Kita..." Michael said warningly.

She backed up. "Okay, okay. I’ll speak to Faith."

Michael rolled his eyes. "You get ready for the party, I’ll take the twins."

"You don’t trust me?"

"Let’s just say you sometimes let compassion rule your better judgment."

Nikita stood nose to nose with her husband, her blue eyes striking sparks. They stared at one another wordlessly. Chris played with his father’s hand, oblivious to the sudden tension between his parents. Faith bit her lip, looking just like Nikita when she was up to something, and she tugged gently at the material in her mother’s hand, finally managing to free it from her grasp.

"You know what, folks? The moment for action has passed you both by," Declan stated with the surety that comes with experience. "So let it go. Kiss and make up."

Michael never took his eyes off his wife. Nikita pushed a hand through her hair, the weight of it suddenly heavy. "I don’t want to fight with you, Michael."

Still Michael didn’t speak. Chris looked up at his father. "Daddy, kiss Mom," he ordered.

Michael glanced at Declan, as if to say something, but he never had a chance to utter another word. Faith triumphantly wore her prize, racing to the doorway, where she posed prettily for both parents. "Mom! Dis my costume! For party! Me princess now!"

Chris rolled his eyes. "Fee no princess. Jus’ a girl."

Declan looked at Birkoff, his pale eyes alight with amusement. "And you thought you had to wait for the party for the fun to begin!"

Birkoff chuckled under his breath, uncertain whether Michael would take exception, given his present mood.

Michael looked at Nikita, the playful glint returning to his light green eyes, his mouth softening. "She’s your daughter, doucette." He kissed her on the mouth, whispering so only she could hear, "If I didn’t trust you, I couldn’t love you so much."

Nikita smiled gratefully at her husband. Chris applauded, clapping his little hands as fast they could go. Mommy and Daddy were always kissing. Suddenly eager to share his insight with his parents, Chris said, "Daddy ‘splained me ‘bout true love, Mom."

That got everyone’s attention. This time Declan leaned on Birkoff, and Birkoff’s mouth dropped open. Michael telling his son about true love? The millennium was indeed approaching.

"He did, huh?" Nikita crouched down to Chris’ level and tweaked his nose. "What did he say?"

Michael colored, but he stood his ground. Faith pouted, suddenly aware that everyone’s attention was on Chris. Not her.

Chris looked into his mother’s eyes, so like his own. He wanted to tell her what Daddy said, but he didn’t remember all the words. Just the feelings. Michael walked slowly to Chris’ side, putting his hands on his shoulders. "I said that we overcame great odds to be together."

"And that no matter what happened...we would always be together." Michael’s voice grew husky with unspoken emotion. Nikita’s eyes grew wet with that same emotion. "Oh, Michael."

Chris leaned on his father’s leg, his pale blonde hair bright against Michael’s black jeans. Michael’s hand rubbed tenderly at Chris’ cheek, as if he were infinitely precious to him. In fact, he was.

Michael pulled Nikita closer, his other arm around her neck. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, and then her mouth. It wasn’t a prelude to lovemaking. It was just an expression of how he felt. There was such love in his heart, it needed no special occasion to spill over into their daily lives.

Declan put his arm around Birkoff, his long, slender fingers rubbing his lover’s shoulder. In turn, Birkoff lay his head on Declan’s shoulder, in front of the others, something he would have been too shy to accomplish yesterday. Birkoff wanted to tell Michael just how beautiful the moment was. But fate intervened.

In the form of one impatient toddler. Faith. She stared at her parents, standing so close to one another. She stared at her brother, basking in the glow of their love and affection. And then she glared angrily at her uncles. Especially Unca Sey. Who was far too close to Unca Dec.

She stomped her foot and opened her mouth to scream. Where was a good temper tantrum when she needed one?