If Michael could see them, he would have cringed. With good reason. It’s not every day that three pregnant women walk into a club spotlighting exotic dancers. Male exotic dancers.

If he’d known, he probably would have followed her, albeit at a safe distance, so as not to arouse her ire. He would have felt the need to protect her. From all those wicked men who wanted women to watch. As they took off their clothes.

He might have thought all three of them were under the influence. Hormonally-challenged. If not visibly with child.

He might have been right. But no men were allowed. They distracted the women from the center stage. Not to mention, they spoiled all the fun.

***

Nikita played with a long strand of her hair, wrapping it tightly around her finger. She wasn’t nervous. She was excited. This was quite an adventure. Taking her mother and Derry to a place that featured male strippers.

The waitress brought them a round of drinks, which Nikita paid for, before her mother did. "My treat, Mom," she said, replacing a small wad of bills in her pants pocket.

Nikita sipped at her Diet Coke and surveyed the room. Women of all colors, ages, and types were chattering loudly and gesturing wildly. Madeline followed the line of sight Nikita established and laughed. "Sounds like a high school cafeteria."

Nikita chuckled. They were already starting to bond, but Derry still looked uncomfortable. She reminded her of Michael before he learned how to bend. All starch and upright. Her beautiful silver-grey eyes betraying a certain level of confusion, Derry indicated the unusually large amount of small denomination bills in her lap. "Why did we change our money into such small bills, Nikita? I don’t understand what we’re supposed to do with ‘em."

"You’ll see, Derry." Nikita didn’t want to spoil the surprise, for Derry, or for herself. She couldn’t wait to see Derry’s reaction when the first male stripper came onstage.

***

Walter grinned lasciviously at the younger men surrounding him. "Aren’t you glad you put yourself in my hands?"

Michael sat perfectly still. He should have known that letting Walter decide where to go for a ‘boys’ night out’ was giving the older man a golden opportunity to wreak havoc with their well-ordered lives. "Just remember, Walter, I have to be home by Christmas," Michael said dryly.

The women might not have been drinking. Due to their condition. But Walter saw no reason to celebrate without a bottle of beer in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. Michael tasted his beer and grimaced. It was cold and wet. That was about as far as he was willing to go.

He’d tried to order milk, but Walter wouldn’t have it. "Dammit, man, a real man doesn’t--"

"Eat quiche?" Declan supplied, a little too thoughtfully for Walter’s peace of mind.

"Hell, I hate quiche! Declan, stop trying to put words in my mouth, you, you--"

Birkoff giggled. "If you say whippersnapper, I’m outta here."

Declan snorted derisively. "You know, it’s so bloody dark in here, I can hardly see my hand in front of me. What is it you brought us to see, Walter?"

"Lots...and lots...of ladies," Walter said conspiratorially to the group, who seemed to have no particular reaction to that statement. Walter winked at Neil, who abruptly flushed. "Hey, don’t look at me, Walter. I’m British. We’re born reserved."

"Well, this should put some starch in your shorts, Neil!" Walter cackled, so carried away by his own attempt at humor, he almost fell off the chair.

Birkoff exchanged glances with Declan. "Umm...how much have you had to drink, Walter?"

"And how much did you have before you picked out this place?" Declan muttered under his breath. Declan’s hand crept under the back of Birkoff’s shirt, his palm suddenly caressing the small of his lover’s back. Birkoff’s eyes grew wide, and he gave Declan a sidelong glance that bespoke both alarm and affection.

Walter struggled to focus on a face or two, his head wobbling just a trifle. "Not nearly enough, Seymour. Not nearly enough."

Birkoff leaned closer to Declan, ostensibly to make himself heard better. "You think he’s had too much to drink?"

"Absolutely, Sey." Declan fixed his storm-colored eyes on the former Munitions chief. "Walter, maybe we should call it a night."

"Declan, don’t be such a party poop. We just got here, man." Walter, the eternal beatnik, the quintessential adolescent, pleaded for understanding. And another five minutes.

"You’ll forgive me the moment the show starts. These are the city’s hottest babes, believe me."

Michael almost choked on his beer. "Excuse me?"

"Uh-oh," said Birkoff, a gentle grin curving his lips. The fireworks might be more interesting than the dark smoky cavern they currently inhabited.

"Tell me this isn’t a strip joint, Walter," Michael commanded.

"Oh, I’d say it’s more than a strip joint, Michael." Declan indicated the stage.

A beautiful blonde waltzed onstage, a portable microphone in hand. "See? You get music and everything," Walter explained.

"How delightfully superfluous," Neil commented airily.

When the blonde began to sing, the crowd quieted. The voice was utterly exquisite. Walter was so transfixed by the performance, he nearly had tears in his eyes. "Wow...she’s good."

Declan choked back an unexpected laugh. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness surrounding them, he could see a bit better. And what he saw amazed him.

He couldn’t imagine what brought Walter here. But he could spot trouble a mile away. And this had all the earmarks of a real doozy.

"Jesus!" The word slipped out before Davenport could control it. His body had a rather predictable reaction to drinking that much beer, hence, his apparently ill-timed trip to the men’s room.

"What’s the matter, sugar? Can’t a girl wash her hands?" The amply curved blonde examined her makeup closely, clearly admiring her reflection in the mirror.

Davenport hurriedly zipped up his fly, completely flustered by the woman’s casual attitude. "You...uh...do realize that this is the men’s room, don’t you?"

The woman turned a brilliant smile on Davenport, her bright red lips standing out under the fluorescent lights like so much neon. "Of course, sugar, I just *love* working the men’s room."

"W-working? You’re a--" Davenport stammered.

"A working girl? Yes, sweetie. Did you want a taste?" The woman’s come-hither look might have turned a lesser man’s head, but this was Davenport. He backed up so quickly, the woman laughed.

"What I got’s not contagious, sugar. Just yummy."

"I-I...I-m engaged. I’m sure you’re a very nice girl and all, but...I-I’m not interested. But thanks for the off-offer."

She rolled her blue eyes in exasperation. "That’s what they all say. But sooner or later, I get ‘em."

Not this one. Davenport beat a hasty retreat, exiting the men’s room without really looking which way he was going. He bumped right into Declan and Birkoff.

"Hey!"

"Oh, it’s you! Thank God!"

Birkoff cast a concerned glance at Davenport. "You feeling okay?"

Davenport wasn’t going to mention what happened, ever, to anyone. But Birkoff and Declan weren’t just anyone. And their faces displayed nothing but sympathy.

"There’s a woman in the men’s room," he hissed.

Declan shrugged. "Aye, probably a pro."

"A pro?"

"Prostitute."

"Yeah...she said she was...um...working the men’s room." Davenport wiped anxiously at his forehead. "I couldn’t get out of there fast enough."

Declan nodded. "Are you sure it was a woman?"

Davenport’s black eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

Declan drew himself up to his full height, which was quite intimidating. He might not have Davenport’s girth, but he cut an imposing figure. "I’ll be back in a minute, Sey. I want to check this out."

"No, you don’t," Sey said almost instantly. Just the thought of Declan going into the men’s room where this person lurked bothered him.

"Aye, I do."

"No, you don’t," Sey insisted.

"Tell me you’re not jealous, Sey. Don’t you trust me?"

"I trust you. It’s *her* I don’t trust." Sey’s lower lip dropped into a pout, his eyes reflecting his inner conflict.

"If it *is* a woman, would you feel the same way?"

Davenport interjected. "I did."

Neil strolled up to where the three men stood clustered together. "Well, we’ve been listening to what passes for entertainment out here. I must say, Walter’s taste does seem to run a bit to the bizarre."

As if in response to that very statement, there was a loud, excited hue and cry from the crowd. "Vel-ma! Vel-ma! Vel-ma!" went the chant.

Birkoff gave his lover a bemused look. "Must be someone they know," he said drolly.

Declan laughed. "Shall we go see what the excitement’s about, Sey?"

"Wild horses couldn’t stop me," Birkoff agreed.

***

Velma turned out to be a 6’2" cross-dresser with shoulders like a quarterback. Walter was not amused. Neither was Michael.

"What the hell--?" Walter sputtered. "I thought...I mean--"

Michael blinked slowly, as if he were trying to decide whether Walter was stupid or just plain unlucky. "Is this your idea of fun, Walter? Or maybe you thought this would bring us all closer together?"

Neil said, "Velma’s not really my type, but I admire a woman who doesn’t feel compelled to shave her legs." Birkoff started to giggle, and seconds later, Declan joined him. Walter might have been drunk, but he knew when he was in deep trouble. "Things ain’t always what they seem, Neil," Walter began, finding himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

Neil fixed Walter with a look of consternation. "Oh, my God, you mean she’s not really a blonde?"

Birkoff dissolved into a fit of laughter, as did Declan. But even Michael’s lips twitched as if he were struggling to hold back a chuckle or two. He looked at Davenport, and suddenly, Davenport could see the humor in what happened in the men’s room.

The music started up again, this time for dancing on the floor in front of the stage. Declan stood up, still wiping at his eyes, tearful from all that laughter. He held out his hand to Sey. "We might as well get something out of this. Dance with me."

Sey looked horrified. "In front of all these people? I’m not a woman, Dec!"

Declan choked back another bubble of laughter. "Neither is anyone else here."

Michael crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking both fierce and inaccessible. "Well, I’m not dancing with anyone."

Davenport laughed softly. "Not even me, Michael? I’ll protect you." He flexed a muscle, and Michael’s armor cracked wide open.

Walter looked incredulous. What kind of madness had he unleashed? What could he do to stop it? Was there even a way to stop it?

Before he could say a word, though, Neil grabbed his arm. "Hey, you’re with me, Walter."

"I-I d-don’t think I can d-dance in this condition..." Walter wailed.

"Oh, and by the way, can I have one of those Marlboros to examine later? I’ve just got to see what you’re putting in your cigarettes these days." Neil swept the older man onto the dance floor.

"I bet it’s not just tobacco."

There was a naked man at their table. Derry gulped. She, who was amongst Section One’s most elite assassins, was perturbed by the sight of a naked man. Well, nearly naked.

"What’s that little whozit on his--?" Derry began, pointing a finger dangerously close to the man’s most prized possession. Madeline abruptly grabbed her hand and placed it in her lap.

"For Heaven’s sake, don’t touch it!" Madeline hissed.

Derry looked confused. "Why not?"

"Because...you don’t know where it’s been," Madeline replied in a lame attempt to explain the inexplicable.

"Or whose hands have been on it," Nikita added helpfully.

"But he looks like he wants something, Nikita," Derry wailed frustratedly. "What should I give him?"

Boy, was that a leading question, Nikita thought. "He’s not a puppy begging for a biscuit, Derry. He’s a dancer. And that’s what the small bills are for."

Derry tried to take her eyes off the dancer’s slender but muscular body, but she couldn’t seem to look away. "Where do they go?"

Nikita resisted the urge to say, Up his nose. "You see that black strap there? Holding up the thingy that covers his whatsis?"

To her amazement, Derry nodded. "Aye."

"Slip your bill in there," Nikita directed.

With great trepidation, Derry forced herself to approach the gyrating male in front of them. Her hands trembling, she eventually managed to snap the strap with the bill, nearly tearing off the young man’s G-string. "Oh!" she exclaimed, getting a glimpse of something she was sure she wasn’t supposed to see.

Nikita hooted and hollered, sure that Derry was loosening up now. "So...how did it feel?"

Derry blinked, looking curiously like a cross between her brother and Michael. "Feel?"

"His skin, Derry, his skin."

"Oh! He’s all sweaty." Derry made a tiny moue of distaste, while Nikita licked her lips. "Ooh, that sounds so hot."

"Eww..." answered Derry, who definitely did not consider touching a strange man’s sweaty groin *hot*.

Madeline laughed at Derry’s reaction. "Perhaps he’s an acquired taste."

Nikita giggled. "Wouldn’t you love to--?"

Madeline pretended to be horrified. "Don’t even go there, Nikita! Neil would kill me if he knew I wanted to touch another man!"

Nikita winked. "What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him."

Derry frowned. "What would Michael think of you ogling strange men in their birthday suits, Nikita? I don’t think he’d like it one bit."

Nikita leaned back in her chair, certain in the knowledge that Michael would never find out where they had gone and what they were doing to unwind. "It’s not like I want to sleep with them, Derry. We’re just looking."

"And touching, don’t forget the touching," she added, unwilling to let Nikita off the hook.

"Just little teensy touches, Derry. Don’t be such a worrywart. Michael will never find out."

Her mouth curved into a deliciously sensual smile, and for a moment, Nikita looked not unlike the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. "Anyway...Michael’s got a much better body than any of these guys."

Madeline sighed in contemplation of any male looking better than the ones that were parading before them now. "But does he dance like that, Nikita?" Madeline asked, pointing to a tall, well-muscled man onstage.

"Michael wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, Madeline. And he certainly wouldn’t be dancing," Derry snapped, positive that her vision of the legend could not be that far off.

***

Well, you couldn’t really call it dancing. Davenport was shuffling his feet back and forth, scuffing his boots on the hardwood dance floor. Michael was moving to the same rhythm, his arms extended so that no portion of their bodies came in contact with each other.

"Is this what you meant about keeping me at arms’ length, Michael?"

"Shut up, Dav. I’m only doing this because I like you."

"And...you didn’t want to hurt Walter’s feelings," Davenport said, deciding that Michael was either getting more accessible or easier to read. Or both.

Michael exhaled a longheld breath. "I don’t need to. I’m sure Miranda will straighten him out when we get home."

Michael glanced over at Walter. The older man, his bandana askew over his thinning grey ponytail, looked regretful. As well he might be. Dancing in Neil’s arms. He would never call Neil reserved again.

"Besides, we’re just doing what we have to do to...blend." If Michael was truly uncomfortable, he wasn’t saying.

Davenport grinned. "And if we hit on each other, no one else will hit on us, right?"

"That, too." Michael gave Davenport a tiny half-smile. "Don’t forget, you’re supposed to be protecting me."

"Yeah. But who’s gonna protect you from me?" Davenport burst into laughter, but he quickly sobered when he saw the no-nonsense look return to Michael’s eyes.

Michael raised an eyebrow, giving Davenport a considering look. "We’ll be on our way soon." What Michael didn’t say was that he wanted to give Declan and Birkoff a few minutes more. He didn’t embrace the same lifestyle they had chosen, but he instinctively knew that it must be difficult not to be able to show off one’s partner, the way one would a wife or husband. So even though the two of them hardly fit into this alternative club any more than Michael or Davenport, he wanted to give them one last dance together. Somewhere they would not stand out as objects of derision.

Declan held Sey close as they danced. He wrapped his arms around his lover, so tightly, his hands crept their way into the back pockets of Sey’s jeans, pressing his lover’s hips against his groin. They swayed side to side, two halves of one whole, Declan’s head on Sey’s shoulder, Sey’s face against Declan’s chest.

The music was not especially memorable. But it didn’t matter. It was so rare for Declan to get a chance to dance with Sey, and in public, too. He couldn’t resist the opportunity.

"Mmm," he whispered in Sey’s ear, "you feel good."

Sey would have blushed, but the room was so dark and smoky, no one could see a thing. Sey fingered the lapel of Declan’s shirt as he snuggled against his chest. "One way or another, you were determined to get your hands on me tonight, weren’t you?" he whispered back.

"I didn’t mean to push you, Sey," Declan said, vaguely alarmed that Birkoff might think he was.

Birkoff pressed Declan’s head back down on his shoulder, taking a moment to run his hands through all that silken red hair. "Relax, Dec. Just because I sometimes make you chase me doesn’t mean I don’t want to get caught."

He pressed a kiss to Declan’s hair, and Declan sighed happily. "See? Married doesn’t have to be boring."

Birkoff smiled, secure in the knowledge that he was loved by someone who believed in forever. "That’s one thing I would never accuse you of, Dec. There’s not a boring bone in that body."

After a comfortable pause, Birkoff glanced at Michael and Davenport. "I vote we go rescue Michael. He’s been a great sport about all of this."

Declan nodded. "Think he’ll tell Nikita what happened here tonight?"

Birkoff gave him a devilish grin. "You never know. With him...what you see...is never what you get."

Nikita sounded almost drunk. She wasn’t. Just overcome by the usual hormonal overload that comes with being pregnant. Sobbing quietly into her mother’s arms, Nikita said, "I don’t want to be with anyone else but Michael, Mom. What if he finds out?"

Madeline hugged Nikita, her own tears never far away. That was one of the things she disliked about being pregnant. The lack of control over one’s body. She cried, she laughed, she raged, and oh yes, she went to the bathroom whenever the urge became too strong to deny any longer. Still, it was ultimately worth it. All of it. For moments like these. When she felt so close to Nikita, it was as if she had given birth to her.

"Ssh...Nikita, don’t cry. Michael won’t find out from us. We won’t tell a soul."

Derry, who had finally decided that losing some of her prickliness was a good thing, nodded silently. She felt like she was starting to belong somewhere at last, and she longed to tell them that. But her almost innate wariness of other people held her back.

They walked together, like a bedraggled female version of the three musketeers, Nikita almost dragging her heels. Burying her face against Madeline’s shoulder, she allowed Madeline to take the initiative as they headed for their car.

A moment later, trouble came strolling around the corner. In the form of the very people they didn’t want to see. Until they got home, that is.

Walter was muttering under his breath about his lack of common sense, while Neil was struggling not to agree with him. Davenport was looking on with some degree of amusement at the way things had turned out. Declan brought up the rear, his arm tightly wrapped around Sey’s shoulder in a gesture that clearly bespoke possession. Michael was in front, leading the motley crew to the Jeep, keys in hand. He was the only one of them who had not been drinking steadily throughout the evening, hence, he was the designated driver.

When he turned and saw Nikita, however, he nearly dropped the keys where he stood. "Kita!" Without thinking, he bolted the rest of the distance separating them, almost wrenching her away from Madeline. "What’s wrong? What are you doing here? Why are you crying?"

Nikita glanced at Madeline, searching for a plausible answer to a perfectly natural question. Then she realized something. Michael and every other male in the Samuelle household, with the exception of James, was standing in the parking lot. Their black Jeep was practically next to Neil’s car. Regaining her composure with a quickness that would have been frightening in anyone else, Nikita folded her arms across her chest.

"Where are you coming from, Michael?" She sniffed delicately. "You smell like cheap beer and stale cigarettes."

The other men regrouped behind Michael, as if waiting to see if he accepted Nikita’s challenge. What would he do? What would he say?

Meanwhile, Madeline and Derry looked on anxiously, wondering the very same thing. About Nikita. Would she keep her promise not to say anything to Michael? Neil? Anyone?

Michael thought carefully before speaking. He didn’t want to lie to his wife, but he had no desire to betray the others either.

"The book’s coming out at Christmas, Kita." That was true.

Nikita nodded. "So you were celebrating early?"

The men all looked at Michael as one. He shifted uncomfortably, certain that Nikita could tell he was holding something back. He was sorely out of practice with lying to her. Thank God, he silently affirmed. "My publisher invited us to a party." That was also true. Michael just hadn’t told Nikita yet. Nor had he accepted the invitation.

"Without me?"

Now Nikita sounded hurt. Suddenly Michael realized that he had let himself be successfully diverted from questioning *her*. "What are you doing out in this part of the city this late at night, Kita?"

"I didn’t come alone, Michael," she said defensively.

"I can see that." Now Michael looked amused. "What brings you ladies all this way?"

Suddenly, like a blazing neon arrow striking its target despite the blackness of night, the reason for any of them being there became as clear as crystal. To both sides.

Laughter erupted. Neil almost doubled over, quite hysterical. "Maddy! You? You were looking at male strippers? Oh, my God, I never thought I’d live to see the day you unbent that much!"

Madeline fluttered her beautiful dark eyes coquettishly at her husband. "Well, I didn’t see anything I wanted to hold onto permanently."

Neil burst into another fit of laughter. "I’m glad!"

"What about you, Neil? Were the girls hot enough for you?" Madeline demanded.

Neil glanced at Walter and chuckled. "Um...that’s a hard question to answer, honey. But as soon as we’re alone, I’ll let you know."

All at once, Walter began muttering loudly, "I’m dead, that’s all, I’m dead."

Nikita smiled through her tears. "Oh, Michael, you were trying to protect Walter."

Michael relaxed so suddenly, it appeared as though he were a stuffed animal whose sawdust had leaked out. He glanced helplessly at Walter, then at Nikita, shrugging for lack of anything intelligent to say. Nikita wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. She drew back abruptly. "Michael! You don’t taste like beer!"

"Thank God," he said with a sigh. "The beer was pretty awful, actually."

Davenport searched Derry’s face for some inkling of what she was thinking. "Darlin’, did you have a good time?"

To her utter surprise, she said, "Aye, I did."

Davenport pulled his wife-to-be against his well-muscled chest, and she sank gratefully into his embrace. This was where she belonged the most. Was there something wrong with wanting the man she loved?

"Did you find someone you liked better, love?" Derry whispered, her anticipation of Davenport’s answer almost painful.

"Never." He closed his eyes, knowing it was the God’s honest truth. "I’m never gonna want anyone else, sweetheart, but if I did go looking, trust me, this ain’t the place I’d look."

Nikita played with a lock of Michael’s hair, almost coyly inviting him to tell her the truth. "Michael, there’s a story here you’re not telling me, isn’t there?"

"Ki-ta..." His dark lashes fluttered down to cover his changeable grey-green eyes. "The only story I have to tell you...is how much I love you."

As predicted, Nikita melted into a puddle of contentment in his arms. He would have felt guilty for not telling her what really happened, but it was true. The only story he had to tell her was a love story. And that would never change. Ever.

Michael followed Madeline all the way home. When their cars pulled into their respective driveways, everyone piled out, anxious to head for bed. Nikita waved to Madeline before slipping her arm around Derry’s shoulder. "Let’s get inside, Wonder Woman."

Derry giggled uncharacteristically, and Nikita thought, there’s still hope for you, girl. Somewhere deep inside there has to be someone who shares Declan’s wicked sense of humor. You’ve already got his deep and abiding capacity for love. Just look at the fact that you made love flourish in the middle of Section’s desert. Just look at the man you’re going to marry. And just think of those two babies growing inside of you.

Derry caught the enigmatic smile on Nikita’s face and asked, "What is it, Nikita?"

Nikita shrugged. Some discoveries were better made by the explorer herself.

***

Declan and Birkoff each grabbed one of Walter’s arms and helped him up the steps to the front door. He was in no condition to walk on his own, though he kept trying to do exactly that. "Let go of me, you guys! I can walk jes’ fine!"

Birkoff shook his head. "Walter, if I let go of you, you’ll fall flat on your face! If you think it’s going to be hard explaining this to Miranda, try having a broken nose, too."

Walter’s look of alarm might have been comical if it hadn’t been for the way he began muttering again. "I’m dead, I’m dead."

Declan went first and literally pulled Walter over the threshold. Birkoff planted his hands in the small of Walter’s back and pushed. None too gently. Walter was rapidly becoming dead weight.

Together, they marched Walter down to the rooms he shared with Miranda. Miranda opened the door, as if she heard them coming. Well, the heavy clomp of Walter’s drunken steps would have been hard to miss. Especially this late at night.

"Walter!" she exclaimed. "What on Earth did they do to you?" she followed up with, evidently believing in the old adage about shooting the messenger.

Declan backed up immediately, pulling Birkoff with him. "Hey, Walter’s a big boy. He did this all by his lonesome, Captain." Declan saluted the older woman snappily and turned on his heel, promptly ruining the effect by stumbling almost to his knees. Birkoff grabbed his lover and helped him stand again.

"You only had one drink, Dec. What’s the matter with you?" Birkoff hissed under his breath so Miranda could not overhear.

Declan glanced quickly at Miranda before whispering to Birkoff, "Maybe I inhaled the fumes from whatever Walter was smoking."

"You’re stoned?" Birkoff cried, aghast.

Declan put his fingers to his lips. "Ssh, Sey. I was just kidding. I lost my balance, that’s all." He yawned and threw his arms around Birkoff’s neck. "Let’s go to bed."

They waved to Walter, who could barely stand, and Miranda, who looked curiously moved by her errant husband’s condition, despite her initial anger. As they walked down the hallway to their own rooms, Birkoff asked anxiously, "Maybe you should let Neil check you out, Dec. I mean, what if something is, like, really wrong?"

Declan stopped abruptly. He traced a finger over Sey’s face, saying softly, "There’s nothing wrong with me, baby. I’m not going to leave you all alone. Don’t worry."

Birkoff’s expressive eyes tore at Declan’s heart. "I just don’t want anything to happen to you. That’s all." Birkoff’s voice was so low, it was almost inaudible. But Declan could hear the underlying pain. He listened with more than his ears.

Declan pulled his lover tightly against him in a gesture that was more loving than passionate. "I’m not going anywhere, acushla. I love you too much to let go that easy."

Birkoff buried his face against Declan’s neck, his lips touching the pulse point there. "I love you, too, Dec."

"Come on," Declan inclined his head. "I think we both need a little more dancing tonight."

***

There was a full moon. Its light shone all over the back lawn at the Samuelle house. The air was cold, but the sky was clear. There was a slight noise as the two figures exited the back door. Then the stillness continued, uninterrupted.

Declan stood in the moonlight with Sey. Sey shivered. Declan opened his black leather jacket and wrapped it around the two of them. Once he was assured that Sey was warm enough, he wound his arms around his waist, pulling him gently against his body. Slowly and silently, they began to sway back and forth, their steps so small as to be imperceptible.

Declan sighed, his breath making white puffs in the frosty night air. He lay his head on Sey’s shoulder, turning his face towards Sey’s neck. Sey’s arms tightened their hold on Declan, and Declan closed his splendid silver-grey eyes.

"You always take me to the nicest places, Declan," Sey said, indicating the enchanting spell the moonlight cast over the still-luxuriant back lawn.

Declan smiled against Sey’s neck. "You feel better, baby?"

"Yeah...I guess I just needed one more dance with you..." Birkoff warmed his hands by plunging them through Declan’s long red hair. "I thought...maybe we were going to make love...."

Declan drew back and kissed him tenderly. "We can always make love. But we don’t get to dance nearly enough."

Sey hid his face against Declan’s shoulder, his long, slender fingers clenched tightly on Declan’s leather jacket. "Sometimes I just can’t believe that you belong to me."

"Believe it, baby. Cause I do." Declan closed his eyes again, rubbing his cheek against Sey’s. "And I never wanted to marry anyone...until I met you."

"Our anniversary is coming up. Maybe we could go away at Christmas? Take the kids?" Birkoff’s tone was wistful.

"Go someplace warm?" Declan kissed the side of Sey’s face. "That would be nice."

"Oh..." Birkoff said, suddenly remembering. "It’s Sasha’s first Christmas. Not just with us. But with anyone. We can’t go away."

Birkoff looked so crestfallen, Declan kissed him, trying to lift his spirits. "So we’ll go after Christmas," he said. He stroked Sey’s long dark hair away from his face. "Cheer up, love. We’re going to have the rest of our lives together."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

They began to dance again, very, very slowly, their hips moving in the same rhythm, side to side. Sey leaned his forehead on Declan’s, their lips barely touching. He could feel his breath on his face. "Of all the people you could have fallen in love with, you picked me. How come?"

Declan smiled, and Sey could feel the curve of his mouth against his. "Well, for one thing...I think Michael would have killed me."

Birkoff burst out laughing. "Uh huh."

"And Walter is sweet, but a little too set in his ways."

Birkoff nodded. "Neil?"

"Neil is...funnier than I am. I couldn’t stand the competition."

"What about Davenport?"

"Hell, Sey, Davenport wasn’t even around when I fell in love with you," Declan protested.

"But if he was..." Birkoff prompted.

Though he had been joking about all of his other responses, Declan considered this question seriously. "Davenport’s a good man."

Birkoff’s mouth went dry. "Then you might have--?"

Declan shook his head vehemently. "No."

"But good men are hard to find."

Declan smiled knowingly. "Yes, they are." He kissed Sey, his lips softly, gently nudging his lover’s lips apart. "And I have no intention of losing you."