Chapter 15: Misura Larga To Misura Stretta - proceeding from out of range to in range, from a position where you cannot strike to one where you can.

When she'd stopped screaming in reaction to the explosion, James Dodgson had glared up at the highly amused Sark.

"Yeah, very funny pal. So what now Blond Guy?"

They were on a deserted airfield in the pitch black, warmed and lit only by the heat of an explosion and surrounded by nothing. No car, no welcoming crew, nothing.

"I don't get it. Where's our car?"

"Oh, I'm sure one will come along shortly."

One didn't come along shortly, lots did. The authorities, passers-by, scavengers, journalists, all were attracted by the Sark firework display. In the darkness Sark had a choice of vehicles he could steal. He took a SAAB. Reliable, fast enough to get them to where he was headed and inconspicuous enough to easily dump later – the ideal car for criminal activity. He uncuffed James to give himself freedom of movement. To forestall any last-ditch attempt at escape on her part he had told her the truth: they were in Russia now, the Wild West of the East, and that if she ran to the police it wouldn't help. In Russia the police were just another crime gang – one mention of his name, of the CIA, of who she was, and they'd be all over her.

"And to quote the great American saying, 'not in a nice way either'."

He drove them to a safe house he and Irina used in the centre of Moscow, gagged and rope-tied James there and then left and dumped the car. He returned on foot and released her.

She rubbed her wrists and flicked an angry glance up at him. "You know, if I didn't already suspect that you get some sick kick out of this bondage thing? – I'd be suspecting you get some sick kick out of this bondage thing!"

She turned away and took in her surroundings with curiosity. Sark gave a smirking grin, his gaze roving slowly over James, appraising her, thinking about the consensually vile things he'd done with certain women in the past.

Sick kick out of this bondage thing? She has no idea.

He lead her further into the safe house, opening big double doors that took them deeper into the heart of it. She walked with chin tilted upwards, brows drawn together, looking about her. He watched her intently; she was so small he was able to look down on the top of her head. She was so tiny in comparison to a lot of the women he knew that the contrast delighted him. He decided it: okay, he was definitely going to go for the seduction. At older than he, and he suspected a lot smarter, she was just too much of a juicy little challenge to pass up.

For him sex was a candy store, and he was the kid in it.

At some level he knew she'd resist it, out of embarrassment and inhibition if nothing else. He almost wanted her to, somehow that just made it all the more alluring a prospect. For Sark, whether the mark was male or female, nothing could beat the twisted kick of manipulating a physical, emotional and sexual surrender when he knew that the person's intellect or sense of virtue had striven to fight him.

The easily available had always bored him.

Although he didn't enjoy fictional theatrics, he had attended the theatre on many occasions, either accompanying Irina or in pursuit of a victim. One of the plays he had sat through had actually caught his attention: Les Liaisons Dangereuse. He had grinningly recognised the character of Valmont as a bastard after his own heart.

His unwavering gaze followed James as she went in. He would have her and then, he shrugged to himself, no harm done he'd throw her back in the pond.

He quietly clicked the double doors shut behind them.

The safe house wasn't the usual bland box, it was a palace, literally. Irina had acquired an enormous suite in one of the old Romanov residences. Of the two of them, he had used it mostly; for some reason it had amused her to station him there. Their immense suite had been maintained well in their absence. Those paid to clean and tend it had never stopped being paid to do so, hence they had never stopped. Besides, they had met the owners - a soignée, elegant woman with the coiled intensity of a viper, and a steely young man with a smile that could cut you - they hadn't dared stop.

The place was warm but dimly lit. Full power was not yet on.

He re-acquainted himself with their surroundings. They were in the huge, high ceiling salon. Ornate, rococo plasterwork, gold-leaf, classically painted frescoed ceilings, deep red silk on the walls. Huge portrait mirrors reflected the dimmed lighting. The furniture was antique. Opulent veneers, intricate carvings, tortoiseshell boule-work, velvets and satins. Sark had always considered the furnishing and décor a little fussy for his tastes, but for some reason he had always felt at home in this safe-house. He felt somehow that the rooms were on his scale.

He suppressed an impish grin: if this didn't impress Dr. James Dodgson, nothing would. He smirked, "grand enough for you?"

She shrugged, "s'okay."

"Only okay?" He flicked her a look of teasing admonishment, he appeared playful but was determined to get a reaction.

"Oh alright, it's great. In fact, anyone but you here with me? – I'd be on vacation."

The pair had moved to the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the suite, it gleamed with modern appliances. Sark was rustling up omelettes. When setting out to seduce he had always found that cooking was good way to start: besides, goddammit, he was hungry.

He had changed out of his suit and into grey tracksuit bottoms, a dark grey T-shirt and bare feet. As he wore a suit with the casual air of a man wearing sweats, he wore sweats with the elegance of a man in a suit.

He chopped the vegetables, handling the knife with the bland assurance of a sous chef – or an assassin - and flicked a glance up at her. She sat nearby, chin propped on elbow, elbow propped on kitchen counter, staring blankly before her. Sark assessed her. So, not that impressed huh? He felt somewhat disgruntled at the possibility. Well let's see if you're 'not impressed' when I take you to my villa on Crete. Sark caught himself up short. What? His villa on Crete? No-one knew about that place, not even Irina, and he was thinking of dragging Dodgson there? Just how crazy was he? He really did need a break!

"I'm not really that hungry," James spoke up in a small voice.

Sark realised that his 'cooking as seduction' technique wasn't having the desired effect. He felt almost unwarrantedly vexed. His knife paused in mid-chop and he looked across at her. "We're eating this. I'm not going to all this effort to have you turn it down. And don't give me any nonsense about 'giving it to the starving children in Africa' either."

Sitting slightly to the rear of him James looked up at his back and huffed, beginning to silently mimic him behind his back, exaggeratedly miming his words. 'I'm not going to all this effort to have you turn it down'.

"And stop skitting my accent."

James was open-mouthed, half aghast, half amazed – how could he have seen?

"And yes," Sark continued, "I do have eyes in the back of my head."

He was still angry. Showing her Crete? Just how mad was that?

He looked back at her, curving an arched brow over his shoulder - paying attention to me now are we James? – and saw that the answer was 'no'.

She was sitting lackadaisical, picking blankly at the countertop with a finger.

She sighed. She wasn't cuffed, she wasn't tied or restrained, she was surrounded by readily available weapons – frying pan anyone? Woman's weapon of choice world-wide! – but she couldn't rustle up the energy to attack him or try to escape. She had finally realised that there was just no point in doing so without a proper weapon, like a gun. Without one, even if she got the jump and he actually had his back turned, she'd still get brought down before she did any damage: he was just too good.

"Did you actually want to marry him?"

She jumped slightly at the question and even Sark was surprised to hear himself ask it. He didn't know where on earth the words had come from, or why he wanted to know. His knife paused again as he waited for the answer.

She looked up at him. "I'm not gonna get out of telling my life story after all, am I?" She shrugged. "Why did I marry him? I dunno. I mean, I guess I didn't wanna end up dying alone eaten by stray cats, and he was a good looking guy, attentive and all, so … when he asked me I said yes. I mean, it wasn't like anyone else was interested."

He flicked her a look as she gazed away into the mid-distance. Oh they were interested alright, they were just too scared to show it. He still felt a vague annoyance at her lack of attention to him.

Her ignoring him was something he had not expected. He didn't like it.

As well as omelettes, he had whipped up a desert of chocolate mousse which was setting in a bowl on the countertop. Cutting a sly look sideways at her he dipped a finger-tip in it and scooped out a tiny dollop. When intending to seduce, he didn't waste time and he allowed no sanctuary. He interrupted her as she was talking.

"James?"

She turned her face to him only to be met by his fingertip an inch from her mouth; his gleaming yet fractionally cold gaze pinned her. "Taste this for me will you, and tell me if it's ready?"

James' conversation jolted to a halt. Sark's instruction had been delivered as half request but also half order. What? He wanted her to do what? – he wanted her to put his finger in her mouth? Her gaze stumbled about in embarrassment, trying to look at anything that wasn't Sark's face. In turn, Sark didn't need to be a genius to sense her obvious, confused resistance, and he pushed slightly, still holding his finger under her nose. "Well, go on," he prompted sinuously, and then offered a slight challenge, "you're not scared are you?" His voice was soft, purring, but with the tiniest sliver of ice. "What do you think I'm trying to do, poison you?" Her mouth opened slightly, but more in perplexity than acquiescence, she was still resisting him by simply not acting. To Sark, resistance really was futile. He ratcheted his voice up a notch so his words were now far more of an order than a request. "Do it," he instructed.

Beaten down by his sudden shocking change of tone, she dipped her head, taking his finger into her mouth to taste, her lips and tongue tugging tentatively at him.

Sark stopped a gasp in his throat.

Her soft, velvety tugging seemed to pull a wire in him. He jolted as a current of energy flashed through him, firing along his nerves, tightening his breathing in his chest. He mindlessly took a half-step towards her, sliding his finger out of her mouth and gripping her jaw line in one hand, intent on pushing his tongue into her instead.

She half started back, round eyed, more than a little scared.

Sark caught himself up short, shocked – what the fuck? Startled at himself he abruptly returned to the chopping board and seized up the knife, burying himself in his previous activity, trying to cut through a welter of confusion in his head as to what had just happened.

What the fuck did you think you were doing Sarkey? You were scaring her! Hell, he thought, I was scaring myself!

For Sark sex was an almost objective exercise, a game of dominance and control, it was something he did to someone, not something he did with someone – or worse – something that sucked him down into some mutual delirium. Mr. Sark didn't do delirium, much less the mutual type. But for a few seconds there he knew he'd nearly lost it. As she'd tugged on him he'd felt – he slammed the door on what he might have felt. He resumed slicing in a frantic rhythm, trying to ignore the jumping heartbeat in his chest, hoping that if he simply ignored the alarming, overwhelming pull he had felt toward her that somehow he could pretend it had never happened.

James was equally panicked. She continued gabbling, reminiscing wildly to subsume her embarrassment and alarm. "There was this one guy though that I really liked? He was in my Quatzecoatl class at college? His name was Marshall. He was so smart - "

Sark turned to her. "What? Flinkman? Marshall Flinkman?"

James looked at him. "Yeah. Do you know him?"

"We've met," Sark glared, "he works for the CIA." He caught her horrified glance and spat out, "oh for Heaven's sake, he's still alive." Honestly, did she think he killed everyone he met?

"The CIA huh? That sounds really … cool."

Sark snorted in utter disgust as he resumed chopping.

"Well it ain't that bad," she continued, still gabbling to try and get past the embarrassment of what had just occurred between them. "In fact, you know I once got interviewed by the NSA?" Sark looked up sharply at her words, "I mean, not to become a spy or anything," she continued hurriedly. "They were just tellin' me that with my line of work and such that I might be approached by the Russians or enemies of the state or somethin'. I think it was to forewarn me." She looked at Sark and then indicated their current situation, "not that it did any good, obviously."

"Obviously!"

Sark felt unaccountably snappy, he was slicing vegetables like a man on a mission. Marshall Flinkman? She fancied Marshall bloody Flinkman?

"Well … how did he turn out? Marshall I mean."

"What?" Sark barked, distracted. "Oh. Married! With two children!"

All lies as Sark knew, but hey, even Marshall had to get lucky one day.

James' voice was small as she took in the news that her college crush was off the market. "Oh, right." But then she straightened in her seat, brightened and said firmly, nodding to herself, "well, I'm happy for him – I'm glad things turned out well with him."

Sark was scarcely listening as she went on, he hardly saw the chopping block as he furiously drummed away with the knife. His thoughts of his previous actions were buried under a slew of astonished anger that she might actually fancy Marshall Flinkman. Flinkman? Marshall Bloody Flinkman? As if! Did she have any idea how gorgeous she was? Not that Marshall wasn't a nice guy in his own way, Sark quickly reminded himself, but for God's sake there were limits!

Well, he could be ten times more charming than Marshall Flinkman, and he was about a thousand times better looking! There was no way he could miss, he –

His own voice interrupted him.

"Would you like to hear my James Bond, Sean Connery impression?" His urbane tone betrayed nothing of his irritated thoughts.

She looked at him, surprised and not a little suspicious, wishing she could back away from him slightly. "Er … no?"

"I thought you did. Here it comes.' He cleared his throat. " 'Miss Moneypenny'." He said it in his own voice and without attempting even a trace of Scottish accent.

After a long second, in which Sark found himself tense, not quite sure what James' reaction was going to be, Doctor James Dodgson jolted with a peal of surprised laughter.

And then the front doors to the suite blew in.

Author's note: the 'Quatzecoatl class' reference is taken from Evoness' great Sarkney fic, Salvation. In it, Marshall refers to a girl he had a crush on at college, where he took classes in Quatzecoatl only because she attended them. Of course, Marshall being Marshall he never actually spoke to her.