* * *
* * *Day Two
When morning came, Sydney woke to find Sark in exactly the same position he’d been in when she’d drifted off. She prodded his shoulder experimentally but received no response. Could he have been drugged? If he’d shown up sick again, she really was going to kill him this time. She peeled back one of his eyelids and finally provoked some semblance of life. He turned his head just enough to bury his face in the pillow, muttering an unintelligible complaint.
“You just aren’t a morning person, are you?” she observed. Another inarticulate growl was her only answer. She tried to rise, but the limp arm across her waist suddenly steeled. “Let go,” she admonished, jabbing at his shoulder again. “You’re perfectly welcome to lie there and sleep all day, but I’m not going to waste my vacation listening to you snore.”
He twisted on his side to pull her closer. “That’s sweet,” he murmured. “How you assume this holiday is for you.”
Now that sunlight filled the room, she could finally see him clearly. Even after several hours of hard sleep, he still looked grimly tired. It was possible, she mused, that maybe this trip wasn’t his idea of an apology after all.
“Don’t you ever sleep at home?” she asked.
“Not if I can help it. You’ve met some of the people I work with, haven’t you?”
She studied him thoughtfully for a moment longer. “You need a new job, Marty.”
“It’s not the job; it’s the management. Once I replace them, it’ll be fine.”
“Sounds awfully ambitious for a guy who can’t even manage to crawl out of bed.”
“I’m on holiday,” he said and she had to laugh at his petulant frown. It made him look like a sulky ten-year-old. “Fine, have it your way.” He unwrapped his arm and shoved her away half-heartedly. “Go broil your epidermis or something.”
“I have sunscreen,” she said, leaning close.
“That’s nice.”
“I could use a little help.”
“You could probably use a lot of help.” He rolled over and pulled the sheet up again. She sat beside him on the bed and stared in bemusement. He really was going back to sleep.
“Lazy bastard.”
“Holiday,” he mumbled into the pillow once more.
* * * It was nearly noon when Sark finally stumbled out onto the patio where Sydney sat reading. Although he was mobile and semi-dressed in a pair of gray boardshorts, he still didn’t appear to be entirely awake. He yawned broadly and she could hear his jaw pop. This was an interesting new side to him, she decided as he turned to frown down at her.
“What’s the point of whisking you off to a tropical island if you’re just going to wear a one-piece suit? We might as well have gone to Prague.” His scowl only deepened as she folded an arm reflexively over her scar. “There’s no one here but us and you know I don’t care.”
“But I do.”
Sark blinked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then turned back to squint at the sea. “How’s the water?”
“I haven’t been in yet.”
“And I‘m forced to repeat myself,” he sighed. “What was the point of whisking you off to a tropical island?”
“I’ve been wondering that for a while now, too.”
Sark either didn’t hear her or simply chose not to respond. He was already halfway down the short path to the beach. Sydney watched as he waded into the surf without hesitation, clearly untroubled by whatever the water’s temperature might be. Within moments it became difficult to keep track of his dark blond head amidst the waves. She gave a mental shrug and returned to her book. Sark was a big boy and he’d used up her reserve of concern for his well-being last night. She was certain that he’d be fine without her keeping an eye on him. Despite her intentions to the contrary, however, she couldn’t help glancing up after every few paragraphs. Eventually she saw him walking back across the sand.
“So, how’s the water?” she asked when he dropped into the chair beside her.
“Wet.” He ruffled his already erratically-spiked hair with his hands, spattering her with tiny droplets. “What is there for lunch?”
“You have the short-term memory of a gerbil, don’t you? We’ve already established that I barely cook for me. What makes you think I’m ever going to cook for you?”
“You are undoubtedly the most defensive person I’ve ever met. Aren’t any of the other men in your life capable of feeding themselves? All I wanted to know was what they’ve put in the kitchen. I haven’t looked yet.”
“Sorry. It’s just that you’re generally such an arrogant snot. I keep expecting you to be a little more of a pig about women.” She was startled by his burst of easy laughter.
“Yes, Sydney. Because if there’s anything I learned during all the years spent with your mother, it’s how to look down my nose at the weaker sex.”
“Okay, maybe not,” she grinned at his sarcasm. “We both know you cook better than I do anyway.”
“Ironically, that is something Irina taught me.” His wide smile softened and he looked at her almost apologetically. “I can make draniki. She said it was her mother’s recipe…”
She could see the unspoken offer in his eyes. A lesson her mother had given him; one that should have been hers. Her grandmother’s recipe. “Teach me?”
“Of course.” The grin flared again as he stood. “Let me know when you’ve peeled half a dozen potatoes. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Weasel,” she called after him. And couldn’t help smiling at the echo of laughter that rolled back to her.
* * * “You’re a neat-freak,” Sydney said as they put away the last plate.
“I am not.”
“We could have just left these dishes to drip-dry… or better yet, left them soaking in the sink. But no, you had to wash them, dry them, and put them away. You’re a neat-freak.”
“I’m not,” he protested again, even as he carefully folded the towel. “I just like things to be where they belong.”
“It’s not even your house.” She reached across him to crumple the towel into an untidy heap. The flash of annoyance in his eyes amused her. She could tell that he wanted to refold it but was resisting the impulse. She wasn’t certain which was the greater accomplishment - that she’d managed to discomfit him or that he’d allowed her to see it. “I bet you haven’t left fingerprints on anything here, have you?”
“That’s not being a neat-freak. That’s being practical.”
“You’re hopeless.”
Sark shrugged amiably. “I’m going back to bed.”
Sydney rolled her eyes. “You haven’t been vertical for three hours. You can’t possibly be tired again so soon.”
“Didn’t say I was going to sleep,” he smirked, stepping closer. She didn’t try to stop him as he slid the swimsuit strap from her shoulder. It belatedly occurred to her that she hadn’t kissed him once since he had arrived and she tilted her head to remedy the oversight. Sark’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned down at her.
* * * “This doesn’t make us even, you know,” she said, as they lay tangled together on top of the sheets.
“You need to stop trying to keep score.” He wove his hands through her hair, tugging gently at the long strands that wrapped around his fingers. “And what are you talking about?”
“I still don’t know where you live.”
“Because you’d like to drop by some evening when you’re in town?” he snorted.
“It’s a matter of principle.”
He disentangled his fingers and smoothed down her disheveled hair. “No.”
She dug her fingers into his ribs in exasperation. “Why does everything have to be on your terms?”
”Why do you insist on asking irrelevant questions?” He caught her hand around the wrist and kissed her palm.
“Galway?” she guessed, refusing to be deterred.
“Not in a long time.” His grip on her hand shifted and he brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist.
“Moscow?” she asked, even as she shivered at his touch.
“Even longer. Do we really have to play this game right now?” His mouth moved from her wrist to her shoulder.
“Mmm… Stockholm?” she couldn’t resist teasing.
“Sold it ages ago. Bad investment.”
“New…” she began, but he muffled her with his fingers.
“We can play your game or we can play mine,” he told her. “Trying to do both is distracting. Would you rather know where I live or what I intend to do once I’m finished with that spot just below your left ear?”
Sydney pretended to think about it. “I suppose we can discuss real estate later.”
“Good choice.”
As his tongue flicked over the corner of her jaw, she had to agree with him.
* * * “Dinner?” he asked eventually. “There’s a resort just down the beach. I thought we might go there tonight.” Sydney propped herself up on her elbows to look down at him.
“Wouldn’t that be a little public?”
“This island isn’t exactly a hotbed of CIA activity and, as far as I know, I haven’t ever offended anyone here. No one knows who we are. Nobody cares.”
She studied his cautiously hopeful expression. “You just don’t want to cook again.”
“True,” he agreed. “But I will if you’d rather stay in.”
“No, let’s go. It might be fun.”
* * * She wore the one sundress she’d brought “just-in-case” and was glad she’d packed it. Bermuda shorts and a tank-top would have looked horribly out of place even in a restaurant that was crowded with tourists. Dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved button-down, Sark blended in just as well as she did. Sydney shook her head at the thought. They weren’t blending, she reminded herself wryly. This wasn’t an assignment. For once, neither of them was anything more than they appeared to be - nothing but a couple on vacation, going out for a meal. She had to smother a snicker when Sark gave their names to the hostess though.
“Nick and Alexa Roman?” she asked when they were seated. “Is that supposed to be clever? Because it isn’t.”
“It was supposed to make you smile,” he replied. “And it did.”
“You’re insane,” she told him. “Besides, we don’t even have rings.” He looked at her blankly until she wiggled her left hand at him. “Rings, Mr. Roman.”
“Ah.” Sark glanced at the tables around them then nodded at a woman nearby whose fingers sparkled brightly. “What about that one?”
“Too gaudy,” she said. “I’d want something a little more elegant. Something understated.”
“That one?” Sark cut his eyes to another table.
“Where? No. Understated, not invisible.”
“Aren’t you persnickety?” he complained and she had to smile at his unlikely vocabulary. “I’ll be right back.”
“What?” she choked as he suddenly rose. By the time she could remember what name was safe to hiss after him, he was already gone. She watched him weave his way across the restaurant and disappear down a hallway. He reappeared a few minutes later and gave her a smug grin. “What have you done?” she demanded as he sat down again.
“Nothing dreadful,” he assured her. He reached across the table and picked up her hand.
She pulled it out of his grasp as he bent his head to kiss the back of it. To her chagrin, the ring was already on her finger. He was good, she had to admit even as she glared at him.
“I didn’t hurt anyone. She won’t miss it. And you can turn it in to lost-and-found when we’re ready to leave.”
This was what she got for playing games with a sociopath. She looked away from his impish grin before she was tempted to smile back. Prolonged exposure to him was definitely hazardous to her morals, she thought as she stared down at her hands. It was a beautiful ring and a perfect fit. Whatever he’d done to get it had already been done and surely little harm could come from keeping it for another hour or so.
“You’re a very bad man,” she said, looking up at him at last.
“I’ve never claimed to be otherwise.”
“What am going to do with you?” she sighed. He shrugged.
“Help me take over the world?”
She was still chuckling quietly when the waitress came to take their order.
* * * Dinner proceeded without event. Sark was trying hard to be entertaining and Sydney let herself be charmed. It was becoming easier and easier to let go of the things she knew she ought to be concerned about. She rationalized it by telling herself that everything would be back to normal by the end of the week. She’d go back to L.A. and resume her good and honest and proper life and none of the things she did here would matter. She tried to ignore the little corner of her mind that whispered how simple it would be to not go back, to live like this all the time and have no regrets. She knew it wasn’t true. But for a week, she could pretend. She was amused by Sark’s feeble protests as she dragged him onto the small dance floor.
“You aren’t that bad,” she said after several songs had played.
“I never said I couldn’t dance. Just that I didn’t want to. And you don’t have to sound so surprised. I had a very good teacher, after all.”
“My mother?” she asked and couldn’t help rolling her eyes at his nod. “Is there anything she didn’t teach you?” He grinned mischievously and then kissed her.
“Do you still want me to answer that?” he asked, resting his forehead against hers.
“No. Please don’t.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t think I really want to know.”
His laugh was low. “As fond of me as Irina might once have been,” he said. “She was never that fond.”
“Good,” she replied, more relieved than she wanted to admit. “Then take me home and show me something you didn’t learn from her.”
Sark blinked once at her boldness, then grinned again. “Yes, ma’am.”
At the door he stopped and held out his hand. She gave him a puzzled frown.
“The ring, Sydney. You do want me to return it, don’t you?”
She blushed and pulled the ring off quickly. She wanted to kick him for the look he gave her when she dropped it into his palm.
“If you like it that much, I can always get you another.”
She made a face and headed to the car without him as he smirked in amusement.
* * * “And I didn’t learn any of that from your mother.”
“Stop it,” she shuddered. “I told you, I don’t want to know. That’s just disturbing.” She punched at him in the darkness, but it only made him laugh more.
After a minor skirmish with elbows and knees, they finally settled into a position that both of them could agree upon. It wouldn’t take long to get accustomed to this, Sydney thought as sleep tugged at her. To curl up in Sark’s protective embrace after satisfying sex that had followed a good meal, sharp conversation, and a nominal amount of bickering - it could easily become cozily familiar. She was even beginning to feel almost complacent about the fact that they couldn’t make it through a simple dinner without engaging in minor criminal activities. After all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been absolving her father for the crimes he perpetrated on her behalf for years now. By comparison, Sark’s petty theft for her entertainment was almost benign. Before she could be distressed by the questionable nature of her drowsy musings, she was distracted by warm breath in her ear.
“If you don’t find somewhere else to put your cold feet, Syd,” he murmured. “I refuse to be held responsible for my actions.”
“As if that’s a novel threat coming from you,” she snorted, tucking her toes farther beneath his calf. He sighed in resignation.
* * *
* * *