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Day OneThe small villa was just as charming as the brochure had described it. The ocean view from the patio was picture-perfect. The living room was elegantly simple and the kitchen was fully stocked. French doors in the bedroom opened onto another stunning seascape and the morning sun streamed in on the wide bed. When Sydney completed her tour of the house, though, she was able to confirm what she'd felt from the instant she had opened the front door: Sark wasn't there.
As the day wore on, he remained persistently absent. Sydney paced through the villa a few more times. She fixed herself lunch and browsed idly through the CDs in the cabinet beside the stereo. She wondered if the lack of any album that wasn't at least a few years old was a statement of Sark's - or just an indication that the property's owner had little interest in updating the collection. Eventually, she tired of staring impatiently at the white walls and put on her swimsuit. She threw a towel over one of the patio lounge chairs and flopped down on top of it.
She wasn't sulking, she told herself. It was a beautiful day. For this brief moment in time, there was nowhere she had to be, nothing hanging over her. She could just lie here and enjoy the sun on her skin, the breeze in her hair. She would savor the cool, sweet drink on the table beside her and the sound of the waves breaking on the shore. It was better this way. The treacherous, smirking assassin would only demolish the soothing, relaxed atmosphere. He could just stay wherever he was, committing whatever reprehensible acts he was undoubtedly committing. She would enjoy all of this peace and quiet without him.
When she opened her eyes again, the sun was much closer to the horizon. Shadows from the house and trees covered the patio and the tide was well on its way out. Sydney wrapped the towel around herself and went back inside. The villa was still hauntingly empty.
She had dinner. Another drink. She flipped through a hundred and fifty-three satellite television channels. Twice. Perused the bookshelves and stared blankly at the titles.
Eventually, she shut the book she'd been pretending to read with an irritable snap and jammed it back into the bookcase. She stood in front of the French doors and looked out at the ocean. The moonlight reflected off the waves and even through the glass she could see more stars than were ever visible from L.A. If this was his idea of a joke, she was going to strangle him. She finally went to bed and watched the shadows creep slowly across the room.
After seemingly interminable hours of listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint hiss of the ocean, there was a soft rustle of fabric, the whisper of a zipper. He slipped into the bed almost soundlessly. If she hadn't already been awake, he wouldn't have disturbed her at all.
"I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
Just a few months ago she would have been disgusted by the reproachful tone of her own voice, cringed at how needy it sounded. On the other hand, just a few months ago she would have laughed at the suggestion that she could be more pained by Sark's absence than his presence. Now, however, she simply sighed -releasing a breath she hadn't wanted to admit she'd been holding- and wrapped her arms around him as he stretched out beside her.
"It's been a terribly long day," he said, burrowing his face into the curve of her neck. His next words were muffled between her skin and the pillow. "I wasn't certain you'd be here."
She had to smile at the way he didn't phrase the admission. His linguistic foibles were almost endearing - in a neurotic sort of way. His actions might have regrettable consequences, but he was never sorry. He might make a miscalculation, but he was never wrong. He might be uncertain about something, but he was never afraid.
"What?" she jibed gently. "You didn't think I could be as pragmatic about this as you are?"
"You have been known to be a little judgmental." She could feel some of the tension beginning to leave his body. "Your morality can sometimes constrict your view of the larger picture."
"You must see everything in panoramic."
He chuckled quietly, familiar and reassuring.
The sound of a sociopath laughing shouldn't be so comforting, Sydney thought. Of course, there were lots of other things about the situation that shouldn't have been comforting either, but she was beginning to forget why. His close-cropped hair, for instance, probably ought to remind her that he'd been shorn in prison. Instead, she was enjoying the way it tickled the bare skin of her shoulder, her cheek; pleased that it was almost long enough to run her fingers through now. His warm hands, sliding smoothly along her sides, ought to make her think about how often they had been covered in blood. Instead, she was relieved that they were not growing permanently cold somewhere else.
Now that he was there, unmistakably tangible in her arms, she finally recognized the knot that was slowly dissipating in her chest. It had not been anger - as she had earlier believed. Not annoyance that he had been playing games at her expense. It had been worry; fear that his legendary luck had run out at last. She was beginning to forget that she shouldn't be worried about his welfare.
She realized eventually that his breathing had changed. His hands lay still, curled loosely against her ribs. He had fallen asleep while she'd been pondering her newfound, ill-advised concern. She briefly considered thumping him awake again but knew that it would be pointless. She didn't really have anything important to say - nothing he wouldn't laugh at, anyway. And they had the rest of the week for… anything else.
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