They sat at a table near an open window, the rattan furniture creaking as they sat down. Her glass was already sweating from the amount of ice the bartender had used. She had wanted to slap him when he had ordered a single shot of Patron, complete with salt shaker and lime wedge.
"For old times' sake," he explained, his smile devious as she stared at the fruit.
"Well, cheers," he said, lifting the tiny glass at her, licking the web of his hand where he'd sprinkled the salt, and swallowing the shot down in a gulp. He didn't break eye contact as he picked up the lime and bit it, and she noticed how his bottom lip was crooked on the one side, as if he were biting it in his teeth. "Congratulations, as I said before," he offered, wincing a little from the sourness of the lime.
"Bottoms up," she managed, and took a sip of the rum and Coke. "So, what is this really about?"
"What is what about," he repeated, maddeningly. "We can't just be sharing a drink?"
She glared at him, and wished she felt half as relaxed as he looked. "I refuse to believe it's coincidence that you disappear for a year and then show up at the hotel where we're on our honeymoon."
"People can change, Sydney, can't they?" His use of her first name made her want to throw salt in his eye. "I told you, I'm a man of my word."
She snorted and took a long drink of the cocktail. "Some things never change."
He shrugged and looked out the window, as if he were deep in thought. She sipped her drink faster than she intended; his silence made her uncomfortable. She was looking at him when he licked his lips again, presumably to clean off the last traces of salt and lime juice. Somehow this amused him, and he met her gaze steadily.
"You know," he said, a dimple forming in one cheek, "You left me with a souvenir from our mission in Paris."
She raised one eyebrow at him. "And what would that be?"
He rolled out his lower lip with the tip of his finger, and there, from her teeth, was a smallish scar inside his bottom lip. "It's not the first time you scarred me, either. Let's not forget Siberia."
She shrugged, not caring how many scars she'd caused him. "And?"
"We only hurt the ones we love," he said, "Isn't that the saying?"
"I don't know what you would know about love," she snapped, drinking faster now. She wanted to kick him under the table. Arrogant sonuvabitch. Who was he to lecture her about love, he who had conspired to murder her best friend, bargained Vaughn's life with her for Sloane's? Who had tried to kill her countless times?
"Sometimes I wonder the same thing about you," he replied smoothly.
Was that a challenge? She forced herself to breathe deeper, to stem the tide of anger she could feel beginning to creep up on her. Damn him, he didn't even look perturbed. When had she become so transparent? Usually she was better at camouflaging her emotions.
"What's the matter, Sydney? Captain Morgan got your tongue?" he chuckled and brushed his thumb along his lower lip. "Admit it, you missed me."
"What would I have to miss, Sark?" she retorted. "The part where you kick the crap out of me, or the part where I try to kill you?"
"Sydney," he closed his eyes as if she wore him out, "That's a crude estimation of our repertoire, don't you think?"
She stood abruptly and drained her drink. "I see you're long done with your drink, and now, I've finished mine. Have a nice life."
She could feel his smirk all the way back to her room.
