They reach the hotel in short order, and she's unsurprised to see that he's occupying the best suite in the place, one near the top of the hotel. He checks the desk for messages, and beckons her with his hand to follow him into the elevator.
On the seventh floor, there are only two doors, for two suites. The elderly gentleman running the elevator gives Sark a knowing look as he bids them goodnight, one that she sees and she tries not to blush.
Inside, the rooms are a mix of Spanish baroque and hotel blandness. Some things are the same the world over, she thinks. The carpet is blah. The bedspreads, blah. His equipment is strewn about, laptops, a mess of cables like a pile of poisonous snakes next to it, several extra guns, a pair of expensive-looking shoes. She takes it all in without comment. The couch looks nice. It has carved wood feet and the upholstery looks antique.
"Can I offer you a drink," his voice cuts into her thoughts. She looks over her shoulder at him and shakes her head without a word. The Petruse was enough for one night. "As you wish."
He proceeds to a bag near the couch, a leather-sided, red-piping trimmed laptop case, and extracts a silver cylinder. "This is the decoy you'll switch out for the real cylinder of agent," he explains. "You'll have several hours after the job is over before I'm scheduled to meet with Walker for the exchange, so you'll have plenty of time to make the switch," he says, but she had crossed the distance to him and stands directly in front of him where he is seated on the couch.
"Sark," she interrupts, "I know how to run a bait-and-switch op, thank you." She takes the cylinder from his hand, and slips it into her jacket pocket. Then she leans over as if moved by an invisible hand, and crushes her mouth against his.
"Mmpf," he mutters against her mouth, "I thought you wanted to talk business." She kneels, one knee next to his hip on the couch, and she is ruthless with her kisses. He is still, very still, before he suddenly pushes her away.
"What!" she cries, and she feels desperate, out of control. What is wrong with him? How can he not want her now, after coming on to her like that and risking both their lives?
"I was merely going to suggest we move to the bed," Sark says, his voice low, and he surges up from the couch to grab her around her waist. This time it is he who is punishing her with his kisses, so hard and furious she is afraid they might chip their teeth, and he is dragging her towards the bed.