It was nine o'clock, and they had just ordered dessert when Sark entered the dining room with a girl on his arm. She didn't look a day over twenty-one, and everything about her screamed sorority girl on vacation. She was tan, more deeply than Sydney, a hue almost more orange than brown, and her platinum hair was just beginning to show roots. The girl's skirt, a turquoise blue pleated affair, ended just above where her buttocks folded at the top of her thigh, so that when she bent to sit down, Sydney could actually see her white bikini bottom a little. The top left equally little to the imagination, and from what she could see, Sydney judged her assets to be a nice solid C. Not too big, not too small, but certainly bigger than her own—what did that even matter? Her handbag looked expensive, though she wasn't familiar enough with the "in" brands these days to know which maker it was. Prada? Vuitton? Fendi? Sydney drew in a sharp breath and looked at the remains of her dinner. The maitre'd was seating Sark and his bimbo at a table behind Vaughn, but in plain sight of her.

"Ooooh," she groaned as cover, "I think I ate too much."

"Yeah?" Vaughn smiled, "Then why did you just order dessert?"

"It just caught up with me," she smiled as though embarrassed at her predicament. "Maybe I can send it back."

"You could take it with for later," Vaughn grinned, "You might need nourishment later, in case you work off the calories you just ate."

She blushed a little at his insinuation. They had been very affectionate. She glanced past Vaughn's shoulder at Sark, as though she were embarrassed to meet Vaughn's eyes, and noticed that Sark was stroking the back of his date's hand with his thumb. The girl giggled and smiled coyly at him, and they were just far enough away that Sydney couldn't hear a word they were saying. It was maddening. Why she even cared, she didn't know, except that the girl probably had no idea how dangerous he was, and that Sark was not the kind of guy you took home to mom.

"I wish we could stay longer," Sydney said, returning her focus back to Vaughn. "I don't even want to think about all the thank-you notes I have to write."

"Well, then think about all the gifts we have to unwrap instead," Vaughn suggested. Their temporary plan for a small wedding, even elopement, had quickly gone by the wayside.

She nodded, and glanced back at Sark's table. He was saying something, his eyes averted from his date, who was nodding and listening intently. Don't worry, honey, she thought sarcastically, you're gonna get laid, whether you listen to his bullshit or not. She was insanely curious about what yarn he might be feeding her.

Their desserts arrived, and she picked at hers in silence while Vaughn ate slowly, so slowly that she wanted to reach over and slap him. She couldn't wait to get away from Sark and his ridiculous date. How old was he? 27? The girl was way too young for him. She wondered how he must look to someone who hadn't seen him in action. He was of good height; not short, but not unusually tall. Slender, but in good shape. At present, very tan. She supposed, to someone who didn't know him, his silky smooth British accent might make him charming, though he could fake any number of accents, so who knew what he had told this girl. She had gotten over accents long ago. People were basically people, no matter where they came from. And Sark was basically… a murdering, lying asshole, no matter what his protestations of being a changed man.

The girl threw her head back and laughed unnecessarily hard at something Sark had said, and Sydney could barely keep from throwing her fork at his head.


Vaughn's ambitions had been premature, and he dozed on the bed while she lie awake, listening to every creak and snap of the hotel settling down for the night.

Finally, at 11:35, she couldn't stand it anymore, and she threw on her jeans and a t-shirt to go take a walk. She was nearly to the outside doors when she noticed the concierge was still at the front desk. As casually as possible, she strolled over and asked him if he could tell her what room a friend of hers was staying in.

"No, señora," the clerk gave her his best regretful expression, "But I can ring your friend and see if he is… available."

"Alright," she agreed, delighted at the thought that the phone might interrupt whatever quality time Sark was spending with his blonde "companion."

She glanced nonchalantly at the display of the phone as the clerk dialed Mr. Peter Garo. 9-347, the display read.

So--he was on the third floor.

"I'm sorry," the clerk replaced the receiver on the base, "But the gentleman does not answer. Would you like me to take a message?"

"No, thanks, that won't be necessary," she told him. "Good night."

She walked to the nearest stairwell and took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The signage indicated rooms 35-50 were to her left as she emerged from the stairwell door, and she glanced over her shoulder before moving that direction. After passing 4 rooms, she paused outside the door marked 347, and listened as hard as she could.

There was nothing. Short of pressing her ear to the door, she couldn't hear anything. Maybe they weren't there? Finally, she raised her hand and knocked. There was a brief pause, and then she heard the chain being taken off the door. She wanted to run away suddenly, but then the door swung wide open, and he stood in the doorway, backlit by lamplight.

"Yes," he said. She couldn't hear anything but the sound of the television behind him, and she would've had to move to peer around him.

"Um, hi," she said, unsure of what to say now that she was there. "I was on your floor looking for ice, so I thought I'd knock."

"Ice?" he smirked. "At 11:45?"

"Yeah…" she nodded, looking at the floor. She was suddenly acutely aware of not having a bra on.

"The ice machine is down the hall, but it appears you've forgotten your ice bucket," he noticed. His eyes were lazy, amused as he looked her up and down. "What's the matter, Sydney, too hot in your room?"

"I can't sleep," she admitted. "I was going to take a walk."

"I'm sure the beach is much nicer than the third floor," he chuckled. "Really, you wanted to go for a walk, or you wanted to check up on me?"

She shot him another withering glance before she muttered, "I'm sure you're old enough to take care of yourself… even if your date isn't."

He laughed then, a short, braying sound, and shoved one hand in his pocket. "You know, that's funny you would mention her. Too bad she's saving herself for marriage." He smiled even wider at Sydney's shocked expression. "Oh, yes—she was a bible thumper of the first class. Pity, too—all that beauty going to waste, waiting for her soul mate to come and make her a real woman."

Sydney's mouth fell open a little bit. "Oh, I… I thought maybe you and she had—"

"Had what, had had relations? I assure you, nothing of the sort occurred," Sark pouted openly. "Most disappointing. I'm sure this isn't a problem you share at the moment."

She blushed, and crossed her arms in front of her. "That's none of your business," she grumbled.

"Can I offer you a drink, Sydney?" he had a malicious gleam in his eye. "I've got plenty of ice in here… Perhaps something tropical, something with… a lime in it?"

At that she turned on her heel and sprinted down the hall, away from his laughter and his insinuations. Back to Vaughn, and her lime-free room.