Chapter Seventeen: Swimming

They hadn't planned on going swimming that day. They'd slept in till nearly noon, hours later than they'd usually sleep at home, but what the hell, they were on their honeymoon. They'd woken up lazily and decided to go out to lunch, dressing casually in t-shirts and shorts and sandals. Not bathing suits. They hadn't planned on going swimming.

They'd taken the long way back to their villa after they ate, holding hands as they made their way down the beach. They'd walked just a little too close to the water's edge, and she'd let out a little scream of surprise when the waves had come up to lick her toes. He'd swept her into his arms the next time the ocean had crashed up to meet the shore, silencing her squeal of protest with a kiss so full of passion and intensity she'd gone weak in the knees.

They'd played in the surf for hours, not caring that the water was soaking their clothes clean through. They'd disposed of the wet garments soon enough, anyway, stripping quickly and silently as soon as they were back in the privacy of their villa. She'd lay back on the bed and reached up to stroke his face, so happy, so ready for him. When he'd entered her, she'd closed her eyes for one brief moment, and he'd gone nearly out of mind at the sight of the smile on her face. Satisfied. Blissful. The happiest she'd ever been.

They'd been so in love.

Or so he'd thought, before Irina had burst his little bubble that morning. How could someone so in love have moved on so quickly? "She was beside herself when you died, Michael." So beside herself that she'd comforted herself with Sark, of all people. Michael didn't think he could have felt worse if he'd learned his wife had been cavorting with Satan himself.

He took a pull from the bottle of Jack Daniels that rested on the coffee table before him, images of the two of them dancing around in his head whether his eyes were closed or open.

His darling Sydney, rolling about on a king-sized bed with Sark. Had she smiled at her new lover the way she'd once smiled at him? Like she'd never been so happy, so fulfilled? Had she dug her fingernails into his back until she'd nearly drawn blood, crying out his name in ecstasy? Had she collapsed against him afterward, dropping a kiss on his chest and telling him how amazing he'd been?

Had she told him she loved him?

Not had, a voice reminded him. Does. Present tense. Does she dig her fingernails into his back…does she…oh, God.

He'd sensed that Irina had told him about Sydney and Sark to hurt him, to encourage him to move on. In the end, she'd ended up comforting him, the pain in his eyes apparently too much for even her to bear. What's the matter, Irina? He'd wanted to ask. You've never seen a man who's just had his heart split open?

"She was beside herself when you died, Michael. She just needed…"

She just needed. As if that were supposed to make everything okay. Damn her for needing someone to fill the place he'd left empty. Not that he would have expected her to mourn him forever. Not that he wouldn't have wanted her to move on. But had she needed to move on so quickly? Had she needed to move on with Sark?

Damn her, he thought, taking another pull from the bottle. Damn her for not being strong enough to make it alone. So many times he'd been the stronger one in their relationship, and where had it gotten him?

Alone with a bottle. Just like she'd found him so many years ago, days after he'd been dismissed from the CIA.

And damn if he didn't need, too. Damn if he wasn't strong enough to get past this alone. Damn if he wasn't a big enough man not to want to hurt her back for the way she'd hurt him.

He reached for the phone, his liquor-soaked brain somehow remembering how to dial the numbers of the one person who could help take the edge off of his pain.

"Brooke? It's Michael."