Chapter 18
A bath seemed to do wonders for his body. The soreness from Irina's kick and the various blows to his face subsided with the hot water.
Sark chose a suit, a tan one that screamed casual confidence. It seemed appropriate, even necessary for today. Sark wore a white shirt, open at the neck. He looked himself over in the full length mirror in his room. He looked sharp, except for the bruise on his left jaw. Luckily, the rest of his bruises and cuts were hidden.
Sark trotted down the stairs to the kitchen and dining rooms. He strutted in, ignoring the usual staff, and picked up a bagel and a bowl of fruit and yogurt. With them in hand, he went on to his office.
By then it was 6 a.m. Sark sat down behind his desk and hit a number that was only known in his mind. While the line rang, he started on his yogurt.
"Corporate offices," a heavily accented voice answered. Sark swallowed a chunk of fruit.
"Yes, I need an update of account 429XL—" he stopped mid-account number as he looked up and saw Sydney standing in his doorway. "I'm sorry, I'll have to call you back."
He cleared his throat.
"Yes Sydney, please come in," he said politely. He motioned to a seat in front of the desk. She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Must have just woken up. Her hair was long and tangled, but swept into a ponytail to appear presentable. She still looked beautiful.
Sark cleared his throat again, composing himself away from that train of thought. He continued to eat his breakfast.
"I wanted to see how you're doing," she said. Sark paused mid-bite.
"I'm fine," he said, chewing quickly. She tilted her head to examine the left side of his face. That tilt reminded him of Irina.
"Is your face sore?" she asked. Her brown eyes were open wide, saddened even. Sark averted his gaze, and refocused on the yogurt.
"A little, but don't worry. I heal quickly," he said. Of course, then he noticed his hands, which were still scabbed over.
"So what's next?" Sydney asked. The sudden change in topic told Sark that she didn't believe him, but would let it go.
"The photos you took are in analysis. I haven't heard anything new from Irina, but feel free to confer with her," he said. He avoided looking directly at her, and he knew she noticed.
"Why are ignoring me?" she asked bluntly. Sark couldn't stop himself from looking up from his bowl.
"I'm sorry?" he said.
Sydney sighed. "Ever since we kissed, you've been distant. Shifty. Ignoring me."
Sark held up his hand to stop her. "I get it, Sydney," he said, effectively ending her list of terms. "This is sort of new for me," he said, hoping that would end the conversation.
"What, never liked a girl before, Sark?" Sydney teased. Sark smiled weakly.
"None like you."
Sydney slowly smiled at that. Sark shifted his gaze to his desk, then back at her. "I'm not sure how to handle this, and still be effective at my job."
It was true, but it wasn't just liking her that he didn't know how to handle; it was fearing her unpredictability now.
Sydney stood and circled behind the desk. Sark turned in his chair, following her as she closed in.
"You're used to being in control, even in relationships," Sydney observed aloud. She leaned over him, supporting herself on the armrests. "But just because I'm Irina Derevko's daughter doesn't mean I'm off limits."
She was so close to him, her breath tickling over his skin. Her eyes mesmerized him, and he felt her fingertips trace the bruise on his jaw.
"Is that an invitation?" he whispered. She smiled tightly.
"Maybe."
She pulled back, and walked purposefully out of his office. It took Sark a full minute to control his breathing.
He had been ready to leave and give up on Sydney, but she kept drawing him in. Now he couldn't tell if she wanted him or was playing with him.
Sark didn't know if he had the resolve to stick around and find out.
It was late in the day when Sark's phone rang. It was Irina, instructing him to be at dinner in half an hour. Sark gave her a 'yes ma'am' and continued working up until the last minute.
Mother and daughter were seated, waiting for him when he stepped into the dining room. Both women looked stunning in evening gowns. Sark suddenly felt underdressed.
"I'm sorry," he began. "I must have misunderstood the occasion." He spread out his napkin over his lap.
"You look fine," Irina purred. It sent shivers through him, which he tried to mask by downing a glass of wine.
"What is the occasion?" he asked, setting the wine glass down.
"A couple of things," Sydney filled in.
What things? Something was up, and it put Sark on alert.
"An apology, actually," Irina said. "From me for earlier this morning. And a bon voyage for your trip."
Sark froze. Irina rarely, if ever, apologized. And what trip was he going on?
"I beg your pardon, Ms. Derevko, but I was out of line this morning," Sark began formally. "And I'm not aware of any trip."
"That's because it's a surprise," Irina said. Surprises in this business are rarely good, Sark thought. "Henry called. It's been a few years now. He wanted to meet with you, see how you're doing."
Sark was well aware that Sydney was watching him with blatant curiosity. He didn't know what she expected to see, because he didn't even know how he felt.
But he knew it wasn't just to check up on him. Henry, probably by Irina's orders, was going to train him some more. Wrapping it in the cloak of a reunion was Irina's way of dispelling any unpleasantries.
Sark smiled probably the most fake smile ever. "Thank you. I look forward to it."
Both women turned to their meals, and Sark took the opportunity to watch them. Both were calm and showed nothing amiss, but there was something.
Evidently, both thought he needed more training, which unsettled him. He'd become an expert at all aspects of espionage and running Irina's organization, and now he was being sent back to school?
For now, he buried it. He glanced up at Sydney, catching her eye. He smiled quickly and turned to his food.
After the most uncomfortable meal of his life, Sark started up to his room to pack for this sudden journey.
He took a deep breath when he reached his room. He felt . . . unsure, of himself and what was going on. It seemed like Irina and Sydney were collaborating together. They must have talked about him at least, and based on this trip, it wasn't a good thing.
Someone knocked at his door.
"Come in," he said automatically. He turned to the visitor.
It was Sydney.
"I hope I'm not bothering you," she said. Sark shook his head and waved her in. He waited for her to speak.
"I've been wondering about you," she started. Sark sat down on his bed, sensing this could take awhile. "I realized that I don't know anything about you."
That makes two of us, Sark thought.
"What would you like to know?" he offered. Sydney shrugged.
"Anything. Everything."
Sark smiled at her sudden display of timidity.
"You'll have to be more specific. I need a starting point, or this could go on forever," he said. She almost blushed. Sark thought it was charming, and he tried to hold back a grin.
"Well," Sydney started, brushing her hair behind her right ear, "who is Henry?"
Sark hesitated. Based on the dinner conversation, he thought Irina had filled her in.
"Henry trained me," he said. Sydney's eyes pressed him for more information. Sark stood and started pacing the room. "You want more, Sydney?"
"It'd be nice to have some background." Sark nodded.
He didn't know how to say any of this. The enigma of Sark depended on isolating details and burying his life.
But the boss's daughter is asking. The woman you are fascinated by is asking.
He opened his mouth, closed it and swallowed. He tried again.
"When I was 17, I was knocking off banks. Henry saved me from the police, and took me in."
"Then what?" she asked. Sark continued to pace back and forth, but was oblivious to Sydney's light smile at his discomfort.
"He trained me in weaponry, fighting styles, technology, languages—anything. When I was ready, I was passed on to your mother."
"And you've been working for her ever since," Sydney filled in. Sark nodded.
"Do you like it?" she asked. Sark shot her a questioning look. "Working for my mother?"
Sark didn't answer. There was no straight, easy answer to that question. Not anymore.
Sydney kept studying him. Something about it reminded him of Irina, and something about it made him wonder what her agenda was.
"Sark?"
"Yes." It was his answer, and she knew it. Sark just hoped she didn't see through the lie. "How about you? Has it panned out to be all you thought it would?" Sark asked.
Sydney smiled and looked at the floor. "It's different. And even though she lied to me, I'm glad she's not dead."
"She is your mother, always," Sark commented. Sydney nodded.
"It's good to be here with her," she said.
With her—not me. He couldn't stop himself from thinking that. But he brushed it aside. Sydney wasn't here for him. Her loyalties were with her mother. Though Sark suspected some interest on Sydney's part, it would never override what Derevko wanted.
So, Sark admitted to himself, he would lose in the end. Sydney will follow Irina. She'll become like Irina. That was enough to convince Sark of the hopelessness of his situation.
"I have to get ready," Sark said softly, interrupting his own train of thought. Sydney nodded and got up slowly.
She started for the door, but stopped in front of him. With such tenderness that he had never felt before, Sydney caressed his face and rested a hand behind his neck. She looked through his blue eyes, and leaned in to kiss him.
Their lips met, and such warmth came over Sark that he forgot all of his doubts and worries. He kissed her back, matching her strength and wrapping his arms around her.
And just like that, it was over. Sydney pulled away, smiling nervously at him. Sark could only look baffled.
"I'll see you later," she said. With that she left.
And Sark's heart screamed for her to come back.
Henry chose to meet in a club in Stockholm, of all places. Sark used the meeting as a social call, and dressed down in light jeans and some gray leather jacket he picked up upon his arrival. He wasn't cold, assassin Sark. Not tonight anyway. He needed to be the boy Henry first met.
He wanted to revert to Fabian, maybe just for tonight. But little of Fabian Ross remained inside of Sark. Just as well, Sark thought. He would need Sark tonight if his instincts were right.
The club was well-lit, with wall panels of white light. Sark walked through the crowd, standing tall above others.
At a small table sat Henry, poised and waiting. Sark nodded at him and approached.
Henry stood, extending his hand, which Sark shook appropriately. His mentor smiled and motioned to a seat. Sark sat, but looked over the man in front of him.
He was older, but even when Henry first took in Sark, he wasn't that old.
"It's good to see you, Sark," Henry said warmly. Sark gave a tight smile back.
"So what test is there this time?" he asked. His tone was quick and low. Henry smiled at that.
"What makes you think this is a test, Sark?"
He didn't answer, but just stared Henry down.
And then, out of nowhere, two guns were aimed at them.