Chapter Four
"Where are you headed to now?" Sydney asks, as she sits cross-legged on the sofa, facing Sark.
Sark leans on the armrest, frowning, "I'm not quite sure actually. Are you going to stay here?"
"Probably not. This is my first vacation place, and I think I need to go somewhere new," she glances down, picking at the lint on the couch. Taking a deep breath, she glances up again into Sark's face, "Thank you."
He doesn't say anything, just gives her a lopsided grin.
She offers a tiny smile, still feeling a little weak from her breakdown. It doesn't stop her from thinking that Sark can be good company, when he isn't being a pain.
Sark pauses for a moment, thinking over what his words are about to imply, "I have a house… in Lugano. It overlooks the lake."
"Are you inviting me to join you?" Sydney teases, wondering what exactly to make of his declaration.
To her surprise, or perhaps she just doesn't want to get her hopes up, Sark replies, "I suppose so."
"Really?" Sydney can imagine the shock Sark must be hearing in her voice.
Sark laughs, amused. "Of course. Taking a vacation by oneself is never that much fun. Perhaps, I could even check if you have been anywhere strange these past two years. A location could trigger a memory or something," he points out, looking at her questioningly.
She doesn't miss a beat, "Okay. Let's go." Maybe it's the fact that she really wants to know where she's been, or maybe she just needs someone, anyone, that she finds herself grabbing her bags and following Sark out of the hotel room. Maybe it's the fact that Sark just comforted her, or the fact that he's familiar, but whatever the reason, she feels strangely refreshed at her decision.
Outside, Sydney raises an eyebrow as they approach Sark's car.
"What?" Sark notices the nearly incredulous expression on Sydney's face. "My car not good enough for you?"
"I thought you had a Mercedes," she points out.
"I still do," he smirks. "I just like this car better."
"I never figured you for the racecar type," she shrugs, glancing down at his sleek, silver Porsche. She has to admit the car reflects its owner. Suave, classy, and attractive.
"This one is my favorite car," he tells her as he holds the door on the passenger side for her, then walks around the car to get in himself.
The drive from Zurich to Lugano takes about two and a half hours. For most of the ride, the car is filled with a calming silence. Sydney sleeps half the way, but when they reach the Alps, she is fully awake, taking in the green mountains. The scenery is breathtaking and for a moment, Sydney feels as if she can close her eyes and pretend she's someone on a vacation, instead of someone running from the mixed up events in her life.
Sark pulls up to the house, a white one with a red roof. The dark and narrow entryway, filled with red tiled floors and cream stucco walls, leads into a wide-open room with a high beamed ceiling. He leads her through the house; it is actually bigger than it seems on the outside. The living room has a black leather couch and loveseat, a wide screen flat panel television, and an all around entertainment system. The wide windows that overlook the lake are adorned with pale yellow curtains, a color slightly darker than the walls.
Sydney smirks as she takes in all the decorations; the house seems all too bright for someone like Sark. But, then again, she never really knew him, did she? Upstairs, the bedrooms are decorated with cool colors—green, blue, and purple—and each room has a large king-sized bed. The whole place is very comforting in a way, which is a quality Sydney would have never associated with Sark before.
Sark motions at three unoccupied bedrooms each furnished lavishly and attractively, "Take your pick."
Sydney peers into each room, then looks down the hall, "Where's your room?"
"Last one on the left," Sark motions.
She picks the room closest to his.
Sark tells her to make herself at home, and announces that he is going to take a nap and a shower. She throws her luggage into her new room and lies down on the large bed. Silk sheets, she muses, Sark sure knows how to live. She stares up at the ceiling, somewhat questioning her decision to come here. How is she going to live with Sark? She isn't sure they will have anything to talk about, anything in common. But it's too late to turn back now, so she'll just have to see where this will go. Quietly, she turns on her side and closes her eyes.
In the office—the first room closest to the stairs on the second floor—Sark sets up his laptop on the desk, even though there is a computer next to him. "The laptop has all the records," he explains, as he catches Sydney looking at him confusingly.
She just nods, sitting down on the sofa across from Sark's desk. She studies him carefully, taking in everything from his chiseled facial features, which have lost some of its boyishness but not attractiveness, to a small dark scar on the right side of his neck, just below his ear. She wonders from what kind of fight is the scar a vestige. Her gaze wanders down to his fingers, typing away at the keyboard. Slender, graceful, yet powerful, she imagines that Sark's hands have changed the lives of many, for better or for worse.
"Okay," Sark speaks, unaware of the thoughts running through Sydney's head. She shakes her head clear and focuses on his words, "You've been to these countries in the past two years: Italy, Russia, Spain, England, Ukraine, and Germany. Do any of those places hold any significance to you?" Sark looks at Sydney questioningly while continuing to click away on his laptop, searching for more records.
"Not really," she admits, shaking her head. "I've been to all those places before, and I'm fluent in some of those languages, but none are really sticking out to me."
He seems to have stopped listening. "Wait, wait, wait. The cities…"
"What?" Sydney sits up straight on the leather sofa. "What are the cities?"
"Rome, Moscow, Madrid, London, Kiev, Berlin. Sydney, they're all—"
"The capitals," she finishes excitedly, feeling that they are finally on to something. "It has to have significant meaning right?"
"Mm," Sark says noncommittally, continuing to focus on the computer screen. "This is strange too. You were each city for two months exactly."
"What?" The information Sark is feeding her doesn't exactly comfort her. While it's nice to know something of her whereabouts in the past two years, she can't help but be nearly terrified at the things she still doesn't know. Why had she gone to those capitals? Why two months? Who, if anyone, had she been with? What if—a horrified thought passes through her brain—she had done something terrible? She refuses to think of all the things she could have done. Without any memory of the past events, it is too easy to scare herself.
"Can't you say something other than what? I'm just telling you what I have here."
"Well, geez, I'm sorry. I'll try and be more considerate when I'm completely baffled next time," she says sarcastically, punctuating each word. She wonders, briefly, if Sark would care if he learned her apprehensions about the things she might've done in the past two years.
"Don't get upset. It's not going to give you back your memory, and it'll only serve to annoy me," he tells her calmly, as if speaking to a child. He doesn't bother looking from the laptop screen.
Sydney sighs, not wanting to argue about trivial matters. "What else does it say about where I've been? Was I with anyone?"
"No, that's all I have here at the moment."
"Well, find some more or something." She thinks that Sark must have more information; he is usually very thorough with his research.
"I probably can't." He shifts in his seat uncomfortably.
Sydney raises an eyebrow, "Why not?"
"I just can't, Sydney," he finally glances at her, giving her a look that tells her not to push it.
She ignores it. "Who did you get the information from before?"
"I don't think you need to know."
"Dammit, I thought you were going to help me. Everyone else is already lying to me, and now you are too." As soon as the words leave her mouth, another terrible thought passes through her head. What if Sark is lying? It could be such an easy set up. Maybe Sark knows where she had been; maybe he had been with her. No, she tells herself, pushing the thoughts away. Sark is the only person who can help her; she has to place some trust in him. She refuses to ask the CIA for help, and isn't Sark the one who comforted her in her time of need?
"I am trying to help you," Sark says calmly, ignoring her accusation, unwilling to be provoked by her frustration.
"Apparently not," she pronounces angrily. She stands up and prepares to walk out, muttering under her breath, "You're still a cocky British bastard who cares only about himself."
She isn't sure if he hears her, but nonetheless he stands up and grabs her wrist before she can take more than two steps. She turns abruptly to face him and finds her face within two inches of his. She can see his eyes, a clear sapphire, and her heart begins to pound. Suddenly, his lips are on hers. She isn't sure who had leaned forward, but it doesn't matter. For a few seconds, she dives into the kiss, allowing herself to feel it. His lips are soft and gentle, but at the same time probing. Sydney knows it's wrong, oh so wrong, but she can't remember being kissed like this. It's probably been two years since she's been kissed at all, and even if she doesn't know it, her body does. His kisses are light and teasing, and Sydney leans into him, wanting more. However, when Sark's hands slid around her waist beneath the hem of her shirt, the haze in her mind clears long enough for her to push him away. "Sark," she gasps, suddenly feeling extremely guilty about what had just happened. "I can't… I—" she stumbles on her words, looking into Sark's eyes. They are a deep blue, dark with desire. She is sure that he sees the same emotion reflected in her eyes.
Sark immediately takes a step back. "Sorry," he says simply, softly, even though he really isn't. He gives her a long look, then turns and moves out of the room.
She hears a door close and draws in a deep breath. Sitting down on the sofa, she buries her face into her hands.
What am I doing?