The next morning, Vaughn woke with a slight fever and nausea so bad that Sydney had to drag the trash can in from the bathroom in case he didn't make it.
"Syd," he sighed, "I'm sorry I'm sick—you should go do something without me." His eyes were closed, and underneath his tan, he was very pale.
"No, it's fine," she assured him, checking his fever with the back of her hand on his forehead. He was lightly sweated, but not terribly hot. "In sickness and in health, right?"
"Right," he smiled and took her hand. "But really—I'll be fine, I just want to sleep. Don't be afraid to go out without me."
"Maybe later," she said, stroking his cheek. His skin was slightly sticky to the touch.
Several hours later, he had been sleeping solidly for some time when she decided to go sit outside on the veranda. She wouldn't chance the beach, in case he woke up, but it would be nice to be outside.
Once she was carefully ensconced on a chaise lounge chair with a book, she noticed that there was a storm forming off the coast, and watched as the blankets of rain sheeted between the dark underbelly of the clouds and the blue-green water. A light breeze had come up, and she shivered despite the sunshine. She was deep in concentration on her book when she noticed someone had slipped into a chair a few down from hers.
Without turning her head, she looked to her right and nearly groaned out loud to see that it was Sark. God, he was like her annoying little brother.
"What?" she snapped, peevish now that he seemed to be following her.
"Oh, Sydney," his voice was languid. Had he had a few too many cocktails? "I didn't see you there."
"Are you blind?" she muttered.
"Hm, my vision is just fine, but thank you for your concern," he retorted.
They sat in stony silence. She stared at her book, unseeing, but pretending to read as if her mortal enemy wasn't sitting three chairs down from her, interrupting her honeymoon. She snuck clandestine glances at him, taking in his outfit. Expensive looking sunglasses—check. Short-sleeved, white button-down shirt—check. She tried not to stare at his legs, very tan and well muscled, from where they emerged from his shorts. She had never seen him wear anything except pants. Since when did people in their business wear shorts?
"Are you here on vacation," she finally asked.
"Of course, why else would I be here," he shrugged, "Surely you don't think this is anything but coincidence that we're both guests here."
"The fact that you even said that makes me sure it's not," she turned her head then, and moved her sunglasses to the top of her head to peer at him closer. He turned then, and bumped his sunglasses down his nose so that he could stare at her over the tops of them. His eyes were still that piercing, direct blue. Nearly the color of the ocean.
"So," he said, looking at her legs, "What have you done with Agent Amorous?" His smirk was nearly unbearable.
"Agent Vaughn," she said pointedly, "Is indisposed." And I should be going back to check up on him, she thought.
"Pity," he said insincerely, "Have a drink with me, Sydney."
It was a statement, not a question, and it infuriated her. He said it the same way he'd asked her to come work for him, all those years ago: Would you consider coming to work for me, if it meant I'd let you walk out of here?
She could still feel his smug expression burning into her in the seconds before she yanked her skeleton key out of the library access terminal and alerted the guards.
"Your suave James Bond-on-vacation routine might work with bottle blonde Texan Bible beaters," she began, "But it isn't going to wor—"
"Sydney, really," he pushed up his glasses and sighed deeply, "Why must everything be so difficult with you? It's a drink. Do you want one, or not? It's very simple."
"Fine," she agreed, slamming her book shut. "One."
"Fine," he repeated, rising from his chair, and following her into the bar.
