4. "I know it drives you crazy when I pretend you don't exist, when I'd like to lean in close and run my hands against your lips."
He despises Spain. His expression betrays his displeasure as he stares out over the city from the balcony of his hotel room.
"It *was* you," she says from behind him.
"Yes." He closes the sliding door as he enters the room again.
"I thought I saw you in the lobby, but then I thought, no, it couldn't be." She looks him over, as if preparing to be surprised. "She seemed pretty adamant about sending me here alone. Did she change her mind?"
"No."
"So, you..." She looks to him for guidance, to fill in the rest of the sentence, because she doesn't dare to make that leap.
He tries not to roll his eyes. "I came here entirely of my own accord."
"Because you love Spain."
"Ah, yes, and who wouldn't?" He gestures toward the balcony, at the view others might conceivably enjoy. She will not detect the sarcasm, he is certain. To him, the country is tainted, infected by oppressive heat and unpleasant memories of missions past. If he disliked Jack Bristow before, he certainly hates him now, for choosing this place to settle.
He hopes she won't directly ask why he's come; he doesn't have an answer prepared, and the truth isn't worth mentioning. She wouldn't believe concern for her welfare as an excuse. More likely, she would propose an alternate explanation: attempting to prove that he was more than her mother's errand boy, he had rebelled in the safest way possible. He left without actually leaving.
Thankfully, she sidesteps the subject for now. "I don't need protection from my own father."
"I know."
"He hasn't turned. He has a plan."
"Who," he inquires delicately, "are you trying to convince?"
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "I'm just telling you, this isn't going to go down like you think it is. I know my father. He wouldn't do this if he didn't have a plan."
"He thought you were dead."
"And whose fault is that?"
Later he will commend himself on his tremendous ability for self-control. She seems to expect a response; despite his increasing pulse rate and the adrenaline that begins to sting his skin from the inside, he manages to say quite calmly, "There is little to be gained by placing blame now, wouldn't you agree?"
She seems puzzled. Of course she would be. It is easy to forget that she didn't know of the connection between the woman she killed and the man she's facing now. Forgiveness has never been easy for him; instead, he has found it more effective to simply sever the wounded limb, slice away the infected sore.
So he takes a deep breath, and tries again. "Shall we go tonight, or tomorrow morning?"
"In the morning. This won't be a surprise attack. It won't have to be."
She sounds so certain, he hates to destroy her illusion. He decides against voicing his skepticism, for now; it's Jack Bristow's job to disappoint her, not his.
* * *
The last thing she needs is an early-morning hangover, but that doesn't stop her from investigating her options. She's interrupted by the phone.
"Sydney."
Silence.
"Is Mr. Sark there with you?"
"Yes. I mean, no. Not with me right this second, but, yes, he's here. In the hotel."
"I figured as much."
"I assumed you had changed your mind."
"Not exactly. Listen, the reason I called, it's about the instructions I gave you."
"I'm listening."
"They're not right. Your assignment has changed--"
"What do you mean, 'They're not right'? Did you plan--"
"The doctor apparently wasn't thinking clearly when he laid out the steps. He left out some critical information; therefore, your assignment is now to bring your father back here."
"Without sedating him?"
"Without sedating him."
"All right." She swallows hard; she has only been practicing the act on Sark. "It wouldn't have been necessary, anyway. Why do you need him?"
"Sydney, your father has been subject to some horrible things under Sloane's supervision. His health will need to be restored. I've collected the information necessary to accomplish that. Just bring him to me."
Sydney does not respond.
"It's good Mr. Sark is there," Irina observes. "It will be important for you to be prepared."
* * *
"You knew," she accuses, and he immediately regrets opening the door.
"You'll have to be more explicit."
"You knew she would call. You knew the plan would change."
"I can honestly swear to you, I didn't know."
"That has to be why you followed me here, to make sure I'd go through with it. I can't believe I ever thought--"
He places his hands on her shoulders; she shudders, but doesn't move away. "Honestly. I came because I knew you would need more assistance than you would be willing to accept."
Her voice is low. "Maybe you're why the plan changed."
He backs off, puts some distance between them. "Maybe," he agrees. "It doesn't matter now. I'm here. We'll do what she says. She must have a good reason for--"
"It's just that it really bothers me," she begins, "Losing control, being forced to do what I'm told by someone who has no authority over me. Especially now, after everything that's happened."
And she's coming closer, and he thinks he knows what must be coming next. Still, he makes no move to stop it from happening, even though he's already counting the reasons why he should do just that. He ceases counting after ten.
"It probably doesn't bother you, though, does it? I mean, you must be used to this."
Her mouth approaches his, and he leans away to avoid the impending contact, being suddenly overtaken by an urge to do the right thing, for once. It's a useless gesture. That wasn't what she wanted anyway.
"You probably even like it," she finishes.
He can feel her breath against the inside of his ear; she's whispering furiously now, and he can't make out the words. They all blur together in one long hiss, but soon the sounds begin to make sense--except they don't, because none of this does.
He thinks he detects alcohol on her breath, and finally feels a chivalrous impulse to put a stop to this. But she isn't the one being taken advantage of, and nothing's even happened. Yet. He is distinctly uncomfortable, but he is compelled to stay in place, to find out how this will end.
Despite the best efforts of his mind to maintain control, his body soon responds, propelling itself into action. Her fingers press against his lips, and when they finally part involuntarily, he can feel her teeth pressing into his ear as she smiles.
She steps backward, severing contact, then turns on her heel and walks away. "Get some sleep, Sark," she tosses over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow morning, bright and early."
She's just like her mother, after all.
He despises Spain. His expression betrays his displeasure as he stares out over the city from the balcony of his hotel room.
"It *was* you," she says from behind him.
"Yes." He closes the sliding door as he enters the room again.
"I thought I saw you in the lobby, but then I thought, no, it couldn't be." She looks him over, as if preparing to be surprised. "She seemed pretty adamant about sending me here alone. Did she change her mind?"
"No."
"So, you..." She looks to him for guidance, to fill in the rest of the sentence, because she doesn't dare to make that leap.
He tries not to roll his eyes. "I came here entirely of my own accord."
"Because you love Spain."
"Ah, yes, and who wouldn't?" He gestures toward the balcony, at the view others might conceivably enjoy. She will not detect the sarcasm, he is certain. To him, the country is tainted, infected by oppressive heat and unpleasant memories of missions past. If he disliked Jack Bristow before, he certainly hates him now, for choosing this place to settle.
He hopes she won't directly ask why he's come; he doesn't have an answer prepared, and the truth isn't worth mentioning. She wouldn't believe concern for her welfare as an excuse. More likely, she would propose an alternate explanation: attempting to prove that he was more than her mother's errand boy, he had rebelled in the safest way possible. He left without actually leaving.
Thankfully, she sidesteps the subject for now. "I don't need protection from my own father."
"I know."
"He hasn't turned. He has a plan."
"Who," he inquires delicately, "are you trying to convince?"
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "I'm just telling you, this isn't going to go down like you think it is. I know my father. He wouldn't do this if he didn't have a plan."
"He thought you were dead."
"And whose fault is that?"
Later he will commend himself on his tremendous ability for self-control. She seems to expect a response; despite his increasing pulse rate and the adrenaline that begins to sting his skin from the inside, he manages to say quite calmly, "There is little to be gained by placing blame now, wouldn't you agree?"
She seems puzzled. Of course she would be. It is easy to forget that she didn't know of the connection between the woman she killed and the man she's facing now. Forgiveness has never been easy for him; instead, he has found it more effective to simply sever the wounded limb, slice away the infected sore.
So he takes a deep breath, and tries again. "Shall we go tonight, or tomorrow morning?"
"In the morning. This won't be a surprise attack. It won't have to be."
She sounds so certain, he hates to destroy her illusion. He decides against voicing his skepticism, for now; it's Jack Bristow's job to disappoint her, not his.
* * *
The last thing she needs is an early-morning hangover, but that doesn't stop her from investigating her options. She's interrupted by the phone.
"Sydney."
Silence.
"Is Mr. Sark there with you?"
"Yes. I mean, no. Not with me right this second, but, yes, he's here. In the hotel."
"I figured as much."
"I assumed you had changed your mind."
"Not exactly. Listen, the reason I called, it's about the instructions I gave you."
"I'm listening."
"They're not right. Your assignment has changed--"
"What do you mean, 'They're not right'? Did you plan--"
"The doctor apparently wasn't thinking clearly when he laid out the steps. He left out some critical information; therefore, your assignment is now to bring your father back here."
"Without sedating him?"
"Without sedating him."
"All right." She swallows hard; she has only been practicing the act on Sark. "It wouldn't have been necessary, anyway. Why do you need him?"
"Sydney, your father has been subject to some horrible things under Sloane's supervision. His health will need to be restored. I've collected the information necessary to accomplish that. Just bring him to me."
Sydney does not respond.
"It's good Mr. Sark is there," Irina observes. "It will be important for you to be prepared."
* * *
"You knew," she accuses, and he immediately regrets opening the door.
"You'll have to be more explicit."
"You knew she would call. You knew the plan would change."
"I can honestly swear to you, I didn't know."
"That has to be why you followed me here, to make sure I'd go through with it. I can't believe I ever thought--"
He places his hands on her shoulders; she shudders, but doesn't move away. "Honestly. I came because I knew you would need more assistance than you would be willing to accept."
Her voice is low. "Maybe you're why the plan changed."
He backs off, puts some distance between them. "Maybe," he agrees. "It doesn't matter now. I'm here. We'll do what she says. She must have a good reason for--"
"It's just that it really bothers me," she begins, "Losing control, being forced to do what I'm told by someone who has no authority over me. Especially now, after everything that's happened."
And she's coming closer, and he thinks he knows what must be coming next. Still, he makes no move to stop it from happening, even though he's already counting the reasons why he should do just that. He ceases counting after ten.
"It probably doesn't bother you, though, does it? I mean, you must be used to this."
Her mouth approaches his, and he leans away to avoid the impending contact, being suddenly overtaken by an urge to do the right thing, for once. It's a useless gesture. That wasn't what she wanted anyway.
"You probably even like it," she finishes.
He can feel her breath against the inside of his ear; she's whispering furiously now, and he can't make out the words. They all blur together in one long hiss, but soon the sounds begin to make sense--except they don't, because none of this does.
He thinks he detects alcohol on her breath, and finally feels a chivalrous impulse to put a stop to this. But she isn't the one being taken advantage of, and nothing's even happened. Yet. He is distinctly uncomfortable, but he is compelled to stay in place, to find out how this will end.
Despite the best efforts of his mind to maintain control, his body soon responds, propelling itself into action. Her fingers press against his lips, and when they finally part involuntarily, he can feel her teeth pressing into his ear as she smiles.
She steps backward, severing contact, then turns on her heel and walks away. "Get some sleep, Sark," she tosses over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow morning, bright and early."
She's just like her mother, after all.