A/N: Thanks to Cruzstar for reviews! I had considered dropping the story until I got your feedback.
Chapter 8: After Dinner Mint
(Sark)
"I don't see them."
"Wait a moment. They're turning the corner."
"Ah."
"He's the tall one, black hair, navy coat."
"I don't have a clear shot."
"You can take out all three of them."
"I know."
"They're getting closer," I warn her. "You have to take the shot before th—"
"I know. Shut up."
They get closer and closer to safety. Take them out, Sydney. At the last possible moment I hear two shots and see two bodies fall. I am already packing up the binoculars and food that sustained me in my miserable surveillance. Petrov is normally a very cautious man. But he was forced to change plans for an arms sale to a less protected building, giving us this chance. The death of his assistant in addition to Petrov was unplanned, but unimportant.
"They're down," I tell her as an afterthought, verifying what she saw through the scope. I hear the telltale signs of a rifle being broken down, the creaking of a door on rusty hinges.
"You're good at stating the obvious."
I allow a pause before saying anything. I am trying hard not to bite the bait today.
"I made reservations at the Masion du Robert, for eight o'clock. Would you care to join me?"
"Why? What do you want?"
"Nothing, except the pleasure of your company."
She laughed. I saw her ahead, carrying an elegant black leather briefcase which actually held the sniper's rifle, wearing a conservative black suit. I stayed a hundred feet behind and lagging.
"I don't believe you."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I told you the truth. You don't have to give me an answer. Dine with me if you wish. Otherwise, I'll see you soon enough."
"Yep. Until then."
With that she cut the connection, her indefinite reply hanging in the air. She turned east towards her hotel, and I continued north towards mine.
(Sydney)
"How was the mission?"
"It went off without a hitch. Petrov and his assistant are dead," I told my father. "What did you tell Kendall this time?"
"He thinks you're on an intelligence gathering mission in Libya. I don't know how long I can cover for you."
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does, Sydney. We can't maintain this façade forever. You should explain what you are attempting and secure the Agency's cooperation."
"You know as well as I do that they will never agree to work with Sark unless he's under lock and key. I need him where he is." I can't count how many times we've had this conversation. It tires me. I glanced at my watch: quarter to eight. "I will think about it. But I have to go now, Dad."
"Be careful. I love you, Sydney."
I hung up the phone. I completely packed my suitcase before deciding to postpone the flight. I pulled on a silk dress dyed halfway between blood and burgundy wine, strapped on black heels, and left the room: hair loose, no jewelry.
The maitre'd led me back to a corner table where Sark sat contemplating a glass of champagne. There was a second flute of the same champagne and a plate of four raw oysters on the table across from him.
"You're late. I took the liberty of ordering for you."
(Sark)
"You cocky bastard," she replied when the maitre'd had left. At least she was polite enough to insult me in private. I couldn't help but smile, which only infuriated her more. She sat rigidly upright, her hands in her lap, jaw tight and eyes narrowed.
"There's no need to be rude. I simply thought you might enjoy a relaxing evening after our long day."
"All tired out, Sark?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
"I am trying to be polite, but you are trying my patience." She smirked. I continued, "Is there anything I can do to convince you I have no ulterior motives? Not for inviting you to dinner and not in our partnership. Please, be candid with me."
"You could apologize for what you did in Rome."
"You were the one who pistol-whipped me. I hardly think I need to apologize."
"Not that. Before."
"And exactly what should I should I apologize for? I'm sorry you allowed yourself to be seduced? I'm sorry you enjoyed it so much you moaned my alias when you came?" I'm sorry I'm falling in love with you. I'm sorry I failed you in Moscow, so sorry that I couldn't keep you from Vagt. I wanted to excise this ridiculous chivalry I felt towards her. I'm not the knight in armor—she's certainly not the damsel in distress.
"Shut. Up."
Her eyes were smoldering, shoulders tense. I obeyed, and we ate in silence. When the waiter came back with the dessert menu, I recommended the chocolate mousse. She ordered the raspberry tart with crème fraiche.
(Sydney)
The last plates cleared, we were left with two glasses of black muscat dessert wine, already half empty. A few more minutes and it was just us, white tablecloth and a candle between us. I kept my legs tucked under the chair. Finally the bill arrived, and a small plate of dark chocolate mints. I reached me hand toward the mints, and Sark clamped his over mine, pinning it to the table.
"Let go."
I met his eyes. They were intensely blue.
"I am sorry for the charade in Rome. I am sorry I didn't tell you what the mission would entail. It was really the best way, and I was concerned you would object and insist on a more dangerous route to Ferucci."
"I would have said yes. Had you asked."
He turned my hand over, still keeping my wrist in his iron grip. His fingers traced over mine, picked up a mint and placed it in the center of my palm. Finally he closed my fingers over it and let my hand go. His eyes stayed on mine the whole time, and I had to keep reminding myself to breath.
"Sydney, I'm sorry," he whispered once more. I pulled my hand back to my side of the table and popped the mint in my mouth: decadent chocolate, clear mint. He bit his bottom lip just slightly. I stretched my legs out until my calves rested against his, feet intertwined.
"Apology accepted."
(Sark)
We sat separated by the middle seat in the cab. In silence. I studied her profile, cut in moonlight and blue shadows. She invited me back to her room, and I followed her into the hotel. We made it to her room without any physical contact: not a single brush of her shoulders against mine in the elevator. I sat at the desk in her room and watched her take off her coat. She came over and pushed mine off my shoulders. I watched her, studied her expression. Next her skilled hands on the buttons of my shirt. Her eyes never left mine.
"Stand up," she whispered, and I complied. She pushed the shirt off my shoulders and circled me, silently, tracing over my back, my shoulders. Pants came next, and boxers. She stepped back to look at me. In Rome she never got to see me. Finally she came closer, her arms on my shoulders, tipping her face up to mine. We kissed, eyes open. I brought a hand to her back, lifted the zipper and brought it down half an inch.
"May I?"
She nodded, and I pulled it down the rest of the way, pushed the fabric away from her shoulders and down over her hips. This time was slow, deliberate. She set the pace, and watched me throughout. Later, when we were spent and wrapped in blankets, I broke the silence.
"Who did you pretend you were with in Rome?"
There was a long pause before she replied.
"I didn't pretend."
"Sydney, what are we doing?"
"We're trying to sleep."
"That's not what I'm asking."
She propped her torso up on her elbows and looked down at me.
"Well it's the only answer you'll get from me right now."
She fell back against my chest and in minutes her breathing was slow and regular. It took me far longer to find sleep.