| Subject: Abandon Hope 2 (Sexual content) |
Author:
Rox
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Date Posted: 04:56:38 01/31/02 Thu
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "Abandon Hope" on 15:37:56 01/28/02 Mon
* * *
The gangly, unkempt, street-wise waif Nikita had been, when she’d first landed on the doorstep of Section One, was barely recognizable in the graceful, well-mannered, sophisticate that was reflected in her compact mirror. Nikita gazed at her reflection, half in bemusement, half in disgust. What would her life have been like, she wondered, if she hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time, four years ago? Now, she would never know. Michael had seen to that!
“Nikita.”
The sound of Michael’s voice through the comlink made her stiff with rage. His betrayal had destroyed her last chance at true freedom. Now there was nothing left to hope for. There was nothing left, beyond being a sophisticated piece of meat to bait a trap.
She took a long, gulp of champagne from the slender, fluted glass in front of her. When she finished, she wished she had had several instead of having nursed the one for most of the evening. At the moment, drunk on her ass seemed the best place to be.
“He’s here.” Came Michael’s soft warning in her ear.
Nikita slowly turned to view the room. She saw Michael at a small table in the corner, his back to the wall. There were several other bar patrons that had been there for a while, and two new arrivals standing in the doorway. One was Ivanovich, the other was a younger man, with dark brown hair and obsidian-black eyes.
Nikita noted that they had noticed her, then turned back to face the bar as if to ignore them. She leaned over and spoke to the bartender.
“Another, please?” She asked, pushing her wineglass towards him.
“Bartender—the drink’s on me.” Came a voice from behind.
Nikita turned her head to the speaker. It was Ivanovich’s companion. He was smiling as he stood behind her.
“Hello again, Maryann.”
Nikita was puzzled. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“It’s been a long time.” The man stepped closer and caressed her cheek.
“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else. My name is Nikita.” Instinctively, she leaned away from his hand.
The man looked astonished. “You’re not Maryann Leigh?”
“No, sorry, I’m not.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon! But you could be her twin!” He sat himself on a barstool next to her and turned to Ivanovich who had been standing to one side during the brief conversation.
“Don’t you think she looks like Maryann?” The younger man turned to Ivanovich.
Ivanovich nodded, then smiled. “You must forgive my young friend,” he said in a thick Russian accent, “for you see you do look like Maryann, a great deal.”
Nikita turned on the charm and gave both men a radiant smile. “An honest mistake, is an honest mistake. You’re forgiven. But now I’m curious, who is Maryann?”
“First, let me introduce myself, I’m Etienne Mauvais.” He took Nikita’s hand, raised it to his lips, and lightly kissed it. “Enchante’, Miss. . . ?” He raised his black eyes with his question.
“Samuelle,” Nikita said in a sultry whisper, “Nikita Samuelle.” Out of the corner of her eye she looked to see what Michael’s reaction was, to her using his last name as her cover. As usual, however, he did not openly react. The patented blank stare was still on his face.
“Samuelle?” Mauvais smiled wider.
Nikita returned her full attention to the handsome young Frenchman at her side. “Miss Samuelle, may I introduce Mr. Anton Ivanovich, my employer.”
Ivanovich bowed briefly over her hand.
“May we join you?” Ivanovich asked politely.
“Of course.” Nikita gestured to the empty barstool on her other side.
They were interrupted from further conversation by the bartender who delivered Nikita’s champagne and asked what the gentlemen were having. The two ordered champagne as well and after the bartender left to do their bidding, Nikita spoke again.
“You were about to tell me about Maryann . . . .” She took a sip of her drink and waited.
“Yes, Maryann—“ Etienne smiled, “She was a dear friend, someone I loved very much. But I was a fool and I let her slip away.”
“A lost love, how very sad,” Nikita said. “How long ago has it been, since you last saw her?”
“It’s been about seven years now—of course you couldn’t be Maryann,” Etienne shook his head. “She’d be nearly thirty by now, and of course you are very much younger. It’s just, . . . I suppose I remember her as she was then. You do look extraordinarily like her.”
“What do you gentlemen do? Your business, I mean.” Nikita asked, to change the subject.
“Mr. Ivanovich is the president of a modeling agency, located in Moscow and I’m a fashion photographer. In fact, that’s how I met Maryann.”
Ivanovich scrutinized Nikita over the rim of his wineglass and asked, “I wonder, would you be interested in modeling?”
Nikita frowned, “Me? Model?” She followed up with a smile and a shake of her head, “I’m flattered, but I have no experience.”
“I’ll teach you,” Etienne spoke up quickly, flashing her with a brilliant smile. “It’s not something that requires a great deal of skill. Either the camera loves you or it doesn’t. I have a feeling, my camera would adore you!”
“Are you serious?” Nikita played with the stem of her wineglass, seeming to ponder their offer, while she listened to Madeline over the comlink.
“Now is the time to let them know you are alone. The faster they believe they can isolate you from anyone that knows you, the faster you will get inside their organization.” Madeline advised.
“Very serious—if you are interested.” Ivanovich continued.
Nikita smiled again then blushed prettily. “I would love to but—I hope you don’t take this the wrong way—I’m here in Sydney kind of hiding out from my father. We had a major disagreement last week and I just had to get away for a bit. Could you give me some references—I mean, I don’t really know you. . . “
Etienne threw back his head and laughed, “Of course! Beauty and wisdom! Here’s my card. I have a studio downtown—you can bring an escort if you’d like. As for references, Mr. Ivanovich can have any number of them sent to your suite. We have worked with several magazines here in Australia and I’m sure you have heard of Cosmopolitan. I had a layout in last month’s issue. I can send you a copy, if you wish.”
Nikita acted relieved. “Of course I’ve heard of Cosmopolitan. What would I need to do first?”
Etienne’s smile widened, “We could discuss that over dinner, if you’d like. This hotel has a five-star restaurant.”
“I’d be delighted.”
Michael paced the floor of his room like a restless panther, as he listened to the dinner conversation between Nikita and Etienne. Very little business was discussed, but Nikita was given a date and time to appear for her photo shoot and Etienne explained the routine issues of signing a release that would allow him to publish any photos he took.
Ivanovich had excused himself from the dinner date on the pretext of having a late business meeting. Michael sent Stillman to tail him, while he remained behind to give Nikita verbal guidance over the comlink as to what questions to ask Mauvais. Nikita, however had other ideas, and pointedly ignored everything Michael said over the link.
Michael’s cell phone rang and he snatched it up.
“Yes?” His voice was soft, and angry.
“What is going on?” It was Madeline, who was just as angry. “Nikita is not playing out the assigned profile! She’s supposed to be with Ivanovich—not Mauvais!”
“I don’t know.” Michael replied.
“She’s your material, Michael, you’d better get a handle on her immediately! We don’t have time for ad-libs. Popovich votes in the Russian parliament on Monday morning. We have less than three days to find his granddaughter!”
“I know.” Michael said softly, his heart sinking as he spoke.
“I trust you will take care of things this evening?” Madeline said firmly.
“Yes.”
“Fine. Contact me when you have the situation corrected.”
The conversation ended abruptly.
* * *
Nikita said her goodnights to Etienne in the elevator, allowing him a chaste kiss on her cheek, before leaving him there and returning to her room.
As she expected, Michael was waiting in the shadows for her arrival.
She tugged at the back of her dress to locate the zipper as she kicked off her shoes.
“What is it now, Michael? I’m tired.” She snapped irritably.
Michael stood in the corner of the room, his arms folded across his chest. Anger radiated from him, but he didn’t answer.
“Not talking? Hello? Hello? Anyone hear me?” With her voice dripping with sarcasm, Nikita addressed the room at large. There was no answer and she decided Michael must have terminated surveillance on her room, or at the very least, shut it down temporarily.
She shimmied out of her dress, tossed it on the bed then reached behind to unhook her black, strapless bra.
“If you want to watch, I charge admission,” she snapped bitterly.
She tossed the lacy bra on top of the dress, allowing Michael the briefest of glimpses before crossing her arms over her breasts and heading into the bathroom.
Michael stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the dress and listening to the shower running. He fingered the lace of the bra, still faintly warm from her body and grieved.
Despite all they had suffered through together, Nikita always suspected his motives. She still didn’t trust him. But then, why should she, when more often than not, he had lied to her?
The shower water stopped suddenly. A moment later, the bathroom door opened and a small cloud of steam billowed into the bedroom. Nikita followed, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp covered with another.
Michael stood with his back towards her, as he stared out the balcony window. One hand knotted the material of the curtain as he held it open.
“You still here?” She asked angrily. “It’s late. I want to go to bed.”
“Madeline wants an explanation of why you aren’t following the profile.” Michael said, without turning around.
“Tell Madeline, if I have to be a whore, I’d rather do it with someone my own age! Ivanovich is old enough to be my grandfather—it would look a little suspect, don’t you think, if I came onto him, instead of a man much younger and certainly more handsome?”
“Like Chandler?” Michael’s voice softly accused as he dropped the curtain back in place over the window and turned around to face her.
Nikita frowned at the memory, “Fine, have it your way—like Chandler!”
“In three days, Popovich votes on the arms sales. . . . “
“And what? You want me to call Ivanovich up and ask him over for the evening?” Nikita interrupted.
“No.”
“Then Mauvais, perhaps?” Nikita pulled the towel from her hair and tossed at Michael’s feet.
When Michael didn’t answer, Nikita unwrapped the second towel and flung it atop the first. “Let’s see how well I did my job tonight, shall we?”
Totally naked, Nikita stepped over to the nightstand and picked up the phone.
“Yes, could you please connect me with Mr. Etienne Mauvais’s room?”
Michael suddenly was there at Nikita’s side, twisting the receiver out of her hand and slamming it forcefully back into its cradle.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nikita bit out as Michael shoved her back upon the bed and fell on top of her.
Nikita struggled momentarily against his weight as Michael pressed her arms firmly against the bed. After several seconds of getting nowhere, Nikita relaxed.
“So now what, Michael? Will it be the standard Section seduction . . . or a rape?” She hissed, angrily.
“It will be, whatever you make it,” he replied, engulfing her mouth with his own.
As much as she wanted to fight him, as angry as she was at him, Nikita’s body betrayed her. She wept as his tongue caressed her lips then delved inside to stroke her tongue, even as her hands tried vainly to push him away.
‘Oh, please don’t. . .’ she pleaded mentally. ‘Please, not like this. Please Michael, please . . . ‘
“Noooo,” Nikita’s body rose to meet the hot mouth that adhered to her breast and began to suckle. “Please. . . Michael!”
She began to tremble and cry aloud as he continued downward, across her taut belly, until he was lower still, his arms moving to hold her thighs wide, in a vise-like grip.
Nikita began to sob as he tasted her, her hands tugging at his hair, even as her breath caught in her lungs at the erotic sensation.
“S-top,” she begged through tears, “Mi-chael! Please!”
He persisted, hungrily.
She came like an explosion, erupting like a volcano, sobbing like a child.
Michael kissed her tears as they rolled down her cheeks, then her mouth so she could taste her own passion as he had.
The salt of her tears stung where his beard had slightly abraded her cheek.
“Why?” She sobbed, “why?”
Michael gathered her in his arms and held her against his body as they lay side by side in the darkness. He listened to her soft tears and tightened his hold around her.
‘Because, I love you. Because, I need you. Because, I can never let you go.’
There were no words of truth that would comfort her. None that Michael could give. The truth was, innocent or not, it mattered little to Section One. Nikita belonged to “it” body and soul, whether or not she knew it, or wanted to be.
There was no hope for her the moment Michael had laid eyes on her in the white room, all those long years ago. She’d been damned—doomed for life, the moment she had opened her eyes that morning.
Section One was their mutual hell—the nightmare, from which no one awakened in this life. Yet, it was life, and life was the only thing Michael could ever give her.
He wanted to give her all of himself, but even that was forbidden. His love, his body, his soul--nothing was solely his anymore. Not even his name was his to give her.
Michael closed his eyes, remembering how she had introduced herself as Nikita Samuelle. He wondered if she knew how much pain she had caused him in that one moment. Nikita Samuelle.
How much longer could he keep his secrets from her? How much longer would it be, before she learned of his other life?
Nikita turned in his arms, finally asleep, exhausted by her tears.
Michael let her go, stopping only a moment to cover her, before returning to his room. He had much to plan before tomorrow.
* * *
Nikita awoke late in the morning feeling worn and depressed. The memory of Michael’s visit the night before rushed back, along with much of her anger. As always, Michael had manipulated her. Was there nothing he wouldn’t do for the Section?
And yet. . . . he had given pleasure, not taken any for himself. Nikita sat on the edge of her bed, and held her head in her hands for several moments, wondering what his motives had been. He had not used the seduction to gain anything for himself, other than prevent her from calling Mauvais—which was something she hadn’t really wanted to do anyway.
Nikita looked at the clock and realized she had to hurry and dress. Her photo shoot was scheduled for noon and it was already nine o’clock.
With a pounding headache, Nikita forced herself to get ready.
* * *
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