The Back Way

I know you’re confused

I know that you’re shaken

You think we’ll be lost

Once we begin

I know you’re weak

I know that you want me

Lover don’t speak

Let me in

I want to come over

To hell with the consequence

You told me you loved me

That’s all I believe

I want to come over

It’s a need I can’t explain

To see you again

I want to come over

- “I Want To Come Over,” Melissa Ethridge

Sydney Bristow didn’t normally work late.

Sark couldn’t blame her. Considering the time she spent on her round-the-world-and-back-again missions, she could hardly be expected to put in extra hours at the office.

But tonight, there she was, hunched over her desk, gnawing furiously on a pen cap and pounding away on her keyboard, long after everyone else had left. Everyone but Sark, that was.

Working for Arvin Sloane amused Sark. It amused him because he had so many aces up his sleeve here. He knew Irina was in CIA custody; he knew Sloane was aware of Sydney and Jack’s double-agent status; he knew that Sydney was terrified of him discovering that she worked for the CIA; he knew that Sloane intended to use the Bristow duo to take down the Alliance. In his brief but impressive tenure in the espionage world, Sark had rarely been sent on such an enjoyable assignment, where he could watch so many fascinating angles played out.

The opportunity to be in Sydney’s presence on a daily basis enhanced the experience as well.

Sark had his own office at SD-6; Sloane knew better than to offer him a cubicle among the other worker bees. The office connected to a back stairwell that only he and Sloane had the access codes for, allowing them to slip in and out of the building with only Security Section monitoring their comings and goings.

But tonight, Sark decided to use the front exit, because it would take him past Sydney’s desk.

He slipped the papers he was working on into his briefcase, switched off his desk lamp, and retrieved his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He considered refastening his tie and slipping on the jacket, but decided to skip it. Why bother looking nice for her? She probably wouldn’t give him a second glance. Sydney possessed the rare ability to make Sark feel completely invisible even while she was speaking to him.

She did glance his way when he sauntered out of the dark hallway into the main office. Aside from the lamp on Sydney’s desk, the room was quite dark; Security Section always left the lights on above the exits, but that distant fluorescent glow did little to illuminate the room. Sark supposed his quick smile was lost in the darkness, or else she simply didn’t care to return it before looking back to her computer screen.

He hurried a little past her desk. Should have taken the back exit. Better to avoid her than to be blatantly ignored.

Sark despised himself for how desperately he wanted contact with this woman. He liked to think it was only a natural curiosity; he had been practically obsessed with her since Irina had first mentioned Sydney to him six years ago. Irina was such a complex, fascinating woman, and he had known Sydney would be the same. She hadn’t disappointed him thus far, managing to balance a triple life as an SD-6 agent, a CIA operative, and a graduate student.

The problem was, obviously, Sydney didn’t reciprocate that curiosity toward him. In fact, she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, and Sark was too proud to lunge after her attention.

Which was why he should have gone out the back way. Deprived her of the opportunity to make him feel two inches tall.

“Sark?”

He was lost in dark musings and three brisk strides past her desk when Sydney’s voice stopped him.

Sark forced himself to turn slowly, to seem surprised to find her there. “Yes?” He congratulated himself for sounding clipped, disinterested in anything she might have to say, too busy to bother with her.

Sydney’s gaze flicked over him, making Sark’s heart jump. His tie hung loose and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the suit jacket folded over his arm. Did she like what she saw?

A long moment passed in which she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and pressed the chewed-up pen cap against her lip. Sark quit breathing while he waited for her to speak.

“You dropped something,” Sydney said at last, and turned back to her computer.

He was glad she looked away before seeing his crestfallen expression. Sighing inwardly – what the fuck did he expect, a dinner invitation? – Sark retraced his steps so he was even with her chair and stooped to retrieve the paper that had slipped out of his jacket-pocket.

“Thanks,” he said, to the back of her head.

Sydney just nodded, absorbed in her work.

And he should have kept walking. Breezed out of the office like he had a million places to be and couldn’t have cared less why Sydney Bristow was still at her desk at nearly midnight on a Friday evening.

Instead, he momentarily succumbed to his pathetic cries for her attention and leaned against the desk next to hers. Sydney grated an irritated glance his way, which didn’t stop him from commenting, “You’re working quite late.”

Without looking away from the screen, Sydney replied absently, “I’m actually not working. Well, not on anything for SD-6, I mean.”

“Oh?”

His insistence on pressing her into conversation obviously annoyed Sydney, and that pleased Sark. Much as he disliked allowing her the opportunity to blow him off, he thoroughly enjoyed getting under her skin. She looked so delectable when she was suppressing the urge to tell him to drop dead.

Slowly, Sydney turned to face him. She scooted her chair back enough so he could see the computer screen.

“Interpretation in Chaucer’s Parliament of Fowles.” Sark read the title aloud and quirked a grin at her. “Sounds exciting.”

If she minded his sarcasm, she hid it well. “It’s not. But it’s due tomorrow and this is the only chance I’ve had to work on it.”

Not for the first time, Sark considered complimenting her dedication to her studies, but, as always, decided against it. No need to get too personal. Anyway, she would most likely tell him to fuck off.

So he settled for a teasing, “Should you really be doing your homework on the government’s dollar, Agent Bristow?”

Sydney actually smiled at him. Sark almost fell over. “I’m a taxpayer,” she quipped. “It’s my money I’m wasting.”

That superior look in her dark eyes, of course, came from believing that she had an inside joke here – that Sark didn’t know she was aware that SD-6 had nothing to do with the U.S. government. He forced down his own smirk.

If she only knew how many of her secrets he was privy too…Like that tall, dark and handsome CIA handler who was dying to get between her legs…

Her smile lasted only a moment before she turned back to the screen. Rather than be left hanging in awkward silence, dismissed without so much as a ‘good night’ from her, Sark picked his briefcase up again and said, “I’ll let you get back to it, then. Good night, Miss Bristow.”

“Actually,” again her voice stopped him as he started away, “I’m finished.”

Sark hesitated. What the hell did that mean? Was he being invited to walk her out or something?

He swiveled to find her watching him, and the possibility that she wanted to prolong this encounter initiated a strange fluttering in Sark’s stomach.

Play it cool. Wait for her to make the next move.

Sydney switched her computer off and slipped a floppy disk into her small black bag. Sark admired her svelte frame beneath the simple black business suit while he waited for her to tell him to get lost.

She didn’t. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she fell into step beside him as they both started for the door.

A tingle of apprehension crept into Sark’s elation. One thing he had learned about Sydney was that she was entirely predictable; this sudden show of tolerance for him was completely out of character, and that could signal trouble.

Or maybe she’s just lonely.

Well, Sark could understand that. It was a Friday night in L.A., after all, and she was writing a paper on some obscure piece of literature in the bowels of her enemy’s lair. Didn’t exactly speak to a stunning social life. He supposed the impossible schedule her double-agent status demanded of her precluded much real human contact. Or much fun.

He could not seriously be considering asking Sydney Bristow out on a date.

Holding the door open for her – the quick smile she flashed him dropped Sark’s stomach into his Italian-leather shoes – he imagined that exchange:

“How about a nightcap, Agent Bristow?”

“How about you go fuck yourself, Mr. Sark?”

Right. No need to open himself up for that low blow.

Sydney’s high heels clicked across the parking garage’s cement floor. In the elevator, she stood slightly in front of him, but just a tad closer than was necessary. Sark studied the side of her face, trying and failing to guess what she was thinking; she seemed to have inherited the unreadable-expression gene from Jack.

Her car was parked two spaces over from his Mercedes. Besides their cars, the garage was totally deserted. Sark’s throat tightened as they neared the vehicles, wondering how to say good night – or if she would simply abandon him at his car and keep walking.

Sark slid his keys out of his pocket and opened his mouth to say, See you Monday, but Sydney spoke first. Trailing her fingers along the shiny hood of the Mercedes, she confessed, “I’ve never actually ridden in one of these.”

Veiled hint, anyone?

Sark braced himself to be shot down. “Would you like to?”

She hesitated. Watching her, Sark wondered if her seemingly sincere confliction about whether to accept the invitation was a ploy, a part of some elaborate scheme to draw him in so she could snap a trap shut on him. It was the kind of thing her mother would do, the sort of thing the CIA would ask her to do, yet somehow not the type of thing he believed Sydney would do.

For starters, she had too much self-respect to go whoring herself out over the likes of him. Besides that, Sydney might have her mother’s lips and hair and eyes but she didn’t have Irina’s capacity for deception.

“All right,” she finally agreed, breaking into his reverie. Her eyes were slightly guarded. “But just around the block or something.”

Sark smirked as he unlocked the passenger’s side door and held it open for her. “I promise not to kidnap you,” he teased, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo as she brushed past him.

The car, like Sark’s expensive suits and fine wines and fabulous apartments, mattered little to him. It reflected a persona he rather enjoyed adopting – the dapper-yet-vicious mercenary. But when Sydney ran her hands admiringly over the leather seats and fiddled with the myriad buttons on the console, he felt a certain pride in the luxury his lifestyle afforded him.

See what I could give you? Anything you ever wanted. I would treat you like a queen.

He told himself to stop it before she picked up on those thoughts. Anyway, why torture himself with something that could never happen? He had no idea why Sydney wanted to ride in his car tonight, why she seemed to want to be near him tonight, but he doubted it reflected any feelings for him on her part. Probably she was just lonely, or bored, or after something the CIA wanted from him, or all of the above.

Now that he finally had his time alone with her, however, Sark’s witty banter abandoned him. He eased out onto the quiet street in front of Credit Dauphine and headed east, toward a stretch of empty highway that wound up into the hills. He went there sometimes, when he needed to think – his mind worked better when it was occupied with more than one thing, and driving often relaxed him enough to work out whatever problems cropped up in his insanely complicated life.

Sydney didn’t seem to mind the silence. The night air was cool and crisp; Sark watched it whip her silky hair across her face and grinned at her futile battle to keep the unruly strands behind her ears.

“Where are we going?” she asked after a while, as the city lights faded behind them. He noted that she didn’t sound concerned about heading off into the unknown with him.

“Just driving. Tell me when you want to go back.”

Sydney nodded and laid her head back on the seat, closing her eyes. Sark found it difficult to focus on the road when he really wanted to stare at her until he memorized that peaceful, content expression.

When she hugged her arms across her chest, he instinctively reached over the seat, picked up his discarded suit jacket and handed it to her. “You look cold,” he explained, when she arched a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Thanks.” Sydney wrapped the jacket around her shoulders and touched her nose to the fabric. “What kind of cologne do you wear anyway? You always smell so good.”

One sideways glance at her told Sark she was wishing she’d kept that thought to herself. She stared out into the night, deliberately avoiding his eyes, and he couldn’t resist baiting her. “Eau de Terrorist,” he teased, bringing her face back around to him. “It’s all the rage in Paris.”

Even in the darkness he saw her eyes sparkle. “Did Mr. Sark just make a joke?”

“Possibly. Did Agent Bristow just compliment me?”

“I guess it’s a compliment for me to say you don’t stink.”

They both snickered at that. The fluttering in Sark’s stomach that had begun in the office was fast becoming an outright rumble of desire; this was how he had imagined it would be to spend time with Sydney, if she ever gave him a chance to get to know her – easy, relaxed, playful.

Yet nice as it was to be acknowledged by her, Sark wanted more. He was incredibly attracted to Sydney, and the way she angled her body toward him, the way her eyes lingered now and again on his mouth, told him that she was attracted to him, too.

Only he was certain she wouldn’t act on that attraction. Like he was certain that if he pulled over right now and surrendered to the desire to kiss her, she would whip out the gun she was most likely concealing and blast his face off.

So he settled for driving in companionable silence, higher and higher into the hills, farther than he’d ever gone before. The green numbers on the dashboard clock ticked past one a.m. and she didn’t ask him to go back. Instead, she switched on his CD player and rolled her eyes as Metallica blared out of the speakers.

“You don’t like my taste in music?” Sark inquired.

“Boys are predictable. They think anything with a screaming guitar is music.”

Noticing that she had just called him a ‘boy’ in a very nice way, which she suggested that she thought of him as something other than a cold-blooded killer at least on occasion, Sark retorted, “And girls think anything mushy and sentimental is a good song.”

Sydney ignored that barb and rifled through the CD case she’d discovered beside her seat. “For a man with such fashion sense, your taste in music sucks.”

“Was that another compliment?”

“Sort of.” Sydney grinned sideways at him as she ejected the Metallica CD and slipped in her selection: Meatloaf.

In spite of himself, Sark felt his long day catching up to him. He tried to hide the yawn, but Sydney saw it. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t realize what time it was,” she exclaimed, looking at the clock. “We should get back.”

Disappointed, Sark started to protest but yawned again. “If you’re too tired, I can drive,” Sydney offered.

He wasn’t, really, but Sark suspected the offer was a veiled request to drive the powerful car. He pulled off onto the wide shoulder, near the edge that overlooked the twinkling lights of L.A. far below, and climbed out.

Sydney got out, too, but to his surprise she came around and sat on the hood of the car instead of sliding behind the wheel. Again, Sark couldn’t help the automatic suspicions that rose to plague him; here they were, in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night, and Sydney Bristow – who had made it perfectly clear how repulsive she found him from day one – wanted to chat on the hood of his car.

He sat down next to her.

She’s probably wearing a wire.

Then why isn’t she asking any questions?

Okay, good point.

In the dim glow of the headlights, Sydney looked thoughtful, almost sad. Sark reclined against the windshield, slipped the loose knot out of his tie and tossed it over his shoulder into the front seat, suddenly weary enough to fall asleep right there on his car.

Until Sydney, so close that their arms were brushing, leaned back beside him and stared up at the stars.

Her nearness brought Sark wide awake. He linked his fingers together behind his head and considered what angle she might be playing here. He couldn’t quite believe that she just wanted to be close to him; her behavior tonight suggested that, but her behavior for the rest of the time he’d known her negated it.

What did she want?

“It’s hard to see the stars with all the lights,” Sydney commented softly. “I remember my mom used to say that the starlight travels so far to shine on us, and we never stop to appreciate it.”

A philosophical moment from Irina? Sark couldn’t suppress a grin.

Sydney twisted onto her side to face him, and Sark’s heartbeat tripled. He continued to stare at the sky, though out of the corner of his eye he watched her prop herself up on one elbow, her slender fingers disappearing into her silky curtain of hair. Her suit, while not especially revealing, accentuated the slenderness of her long legs, the smallness of her waist, the leanness of her arms.

He tried not to notice, but with her stretched out alongside him, it was damnably difficult not to.

“Sark?”

The tentativeness in her voice excited him. He was nervous, almost giddy with anticipation. “Yes?”

“Do you ever wish you had a different life?”

Every goddamn day. Especially right now.

Sark rolled onto his side so he could face her. Sydney didn’t back away, though their bodies were only inches apart, his knees touching hers. She was so close that he could see her face clearly even in the darkness.

This, Sark realized, could become dangerous in a hurry; that icy reserve he prided himself on did not apply to Sydney Bristow, and the last thing he needed was to go bearing his soul to her when she would probably use whatever he revealed to take him down.

So he played it cool. Making an effort to keep his voice light, Sark replied smoothly, “Not often. I rather like my life.”

“When you lie,” Sydney reached out and touched the corner of his mouth with her fingertip, effectively stopping Sark’s heart, “you have a little twitch here.”

The huskiness in her voice generated a riot of activity deep in Sark’s stomach. He struggled against the urge to kiss the finger that lingered beside his lips for a moment before she withdrew it.

Nice to know she’d picked up on one of his tells.

“All right,” he confessed. “I occasionally wish I had a different life.”

“Like when?”

Sark sighed, wishing she would cut to the chase and drop the game. He was dangerously close to believing this wasn’t an act – which would only make discovering that it was that much more painful. Rather sharply, he said, “Agent Bristow, if there’s something you’d like to know, why don’t you just ask and we’ll see if I can tell it to you.”

Sydney cocked her head at him, puzzled but not offended. “There’s a million things I’d like to know. Why you’re really working with Sloane, how much you know about SD-6 and the Alliance, what your real name is. But I know you’re not going to tell me any of that, so I thought we could just talk. If you don’t want to, we can go back now.”

Good answer.

Watching the wind tug at her hair, Sark lowered his guard a tiny bit. “The first time I killed a man, I wanted out. The first time I was tortured, I wanted out. But mostly, if I think about having another life, it’s just momentary, brought on by something small. Like seeing a family together in a park or something.”

And every time I’m around you.

Sydney was watching his mouth again. It was terribly distracting. “Do you think you’ll ever get out?”

“I’m in much too deep for that.”

He knew those words reflected her situation exactly. Sydney flicked a sympathetic smile at him. They were momentarily plunged into silence as the CD switched tracks, and in the stillness, Sark heard his heart hammering.

So close…I could just touch her, catch her waist and pull her into me and bring my mouth down onto hers…

She had to recognize the heat in his eyes. Sark wanted to look away from her, but Sydney held his gaze, looking into him and through him at the same time. He felt as if his very soul was on display, and it terrified him.

Yes, I want you – I always have, before I even knew you – You’ve been like this dream to me, this perfect unattainable dream and now you’re here, and I still can’t have you but oh if I could –

With those thoughts chasing around in his head, Sark actually winced when Sydney’s fingertips brushed his neck. “You have a scar here,” she murmured, tracing the tiny white mark on his throat. “How’d you get it?”

That purr in her voice was the sexiest thing Sark had ever heard. He wondered if she had any idea what it took not to pounce on her. “Ricochet.”

Sydney’s fingers were now toying with the curls at the nape of his neck, and her mouth was drifting steadily closer to his throat. “You were shot in the neck?”

“Flesh wound.” Now that she was focused on something other than his face, Sark shut his eyes and prayed for the willpower to resist her if she began interrogating him. If she didn’t kiss him soon, he might burst into flames. “Barely grazed me but it bled like a war-wound…”

Time stopped when her lips connected with his neck. Sark heard himself gasp but couldn’t stifle it; he froze, afraid even the slightest movement might wake him from this wonderful dream, as Sydney gently kissed his scar.

Shifting forward so that her body was molded against his, she slowly deepened the kiss, sucking hard enough to leave a small bruise on his neck. Sark recovered from his momentary paralysis and took her face in his hands, pulling her mouth away from his neck and tilting her chin up toward his.

The smokiness in her eyes inflamed him even more than her kiss. But he had dreamed of this moment, longed for it, fantasized about it, for so, so long – and now that it was here, he didn’t want to rush it.

So he took his time moving in for the kiss, staring into her eyes and watching the gold flecks around her iris darken and swirl into a haze of passion. He drank in her scent, tangy and sweet and incredibly feminine. His mouth drew nearer, nearer; Sydney’s eyelids fluttered closed in anticipation of the connection.

Sark slid his tongue across her lips first. She made a small sound at the back of her throat, not quite a moan but more a cry for mercy; he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, silently asking her to be patient, to let him take his time and coax every ounce of pleasure out of her that he could. He brushed his mouth over hers, the lightest touch, teasing himself as much as he was teasing her.

And then, finally, he kissed her.

Her lips were soft and full and welcoming. Sydney parted her lips to his tongue, slipped hers out to meet his; the electric zing that sent down Sark’s body nearly undid him. He rolled on top of her, pressing his hips into hers so she could feel how much he wanted her.

The pace quickened then, driven by a fierce desire. Sydney tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed him roughly, biting his lower lip when Sark lifted her shoulders to push the jacket off of her arms. Her hands moved between them and tore open the buttons on his shirt; her fingers greedily explored his exposed skin, lingering on the firm muscles in his arms that stood out in sharp relief as he balanced his weight on his palms.

Vaguely, Sark realized that making love on the hood of his Mercedes wasn’t very practical – and probably wouldn’t be very comfortable for Sydney. Disentangling himself from her momentarily, he lifted her in his arms like a child and carried her around to the back of the car. Sydney attacked his neck with playful kisses as he wrenched the door opened and deposited her in the backseat, then crawled in on top of her.

“Never made love in a car before,” she rasped out, bending her knees up on either side of his body to make room for him on the seat.

Sark didn’t bother to confess that he hadn’t, either; he was too busy undressing her. He eased her pants down off her ankles and stroked back up her slender legs, pausing to rub slow circles on her inner thigh. Sydney lifted her hips toward his touch, and Sark grazed his thumb over the front of her lacey underwear, drawing a moan from her.

Not yet, his mind insisted, though his body was screaming – as hers was – for him to hurry. Don’t rush. Savor her.

She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath the stretchy black tank-top, Sark discovered when he slipped it off over her head. He paused to look down at her, amazed by her beauty. The moonlight glowed silver on her skin; she was flawless, firm breasts above a perfectly flat stomach, long legs plunging down into delicate ankles.

He dipped his head and covered her swollen nipple with his mouth. Sydney’s back arched toward him, and she cried out again.

When he moved back, Sark was more than ready to enter her, but now it was Sydney’s turn to take control. She grabbed his shoulders and flipped him over, pinning him beneath her. They both laughed at the impossibility of maneuvering in the small space; their legs tangled up, causing her to fall hard across his chest.

Sark stopped laughing when her hand slid along the bulge in his pants. He wanted to beg her to hurry, remembered his desire to savor her and decided to afford her the same luxury; she pushed the suit pants and boxers off his hips while she kissed down his neck, onto his chest, across the ridged muscles in his stomach. On her way back up his body, her lips encountered his nipple, and she repeated the torture he had inflicted on her; Sark moaned as her tongue rolled out across the taut peak, certain that he couldn’t hold out for another second.

Sydney sensed his urgency, matched it with her own. She didn’t resist when he pulled her beneath him again. She lifted her hips to meet his and Sark drove into her, calling out her name as her warmth and softness enveloped him.

She was everything he had ever imagined: sweet yet passionate, gentle yet hungry. While he moved inside of her, letting her cries and gasps tell him what she liked, Sydney stroked his back with her fingertips, dropped tiny kisses along his collarbone, nuzzled his neck with her nose.

Her tenderness shook him to the core. This wasn’t just sex, though the physicality was incredible. This was making love.

He felt her building toward her climax. She clutched his shoulders, digging her nails into his strong arms, and Sark raised himself slightly so he could stare down into her face as the ecstasy overtook her. She was remarkable – head thrown back to expose her swanlike neck, eyes squeezed shut tight, mouth curved around the moan that rose in her throat and finally broke around them as he burst into her, gasping as his own pleasure rolled over him in sparkling waves.

* * * *

The stillness that followed was like the calm after the storm.

With his head resting on Sydney’s chest, Sark heard her heartbeat return to normal as his own breathing gradually slowed down. Her silky-soft skin was slick with sweat, as was his; the musky scent of sex hung in the nighttime air like the echo of their cries.

Sydney smoothed the damp curls off of his forehead. Sark closed his eyes again, thinking that he should probably pinch himself to be certain this wasn’t a dream.

Finally, he shifted to the side and stretched out alongside her on the seat. She grinned at him. “I think we probably ruined your leather upholstery.”

He grinned back. “The stains will be a nice reminder.”

Ah, there it was: the question.

Is this forever? Or just tonight?

They dressed quietly. Sark expected the silence to be awkward but it wasn’t, though his mind raced with a thousand questions.

Foremost was what this meant. What would happen on Monday, when they were back to business at SD-6. Whether he could call her up tomorrow and ask her out on a proper date. If this would go anywhere, or just be a memory they held between them.

Sydney still wanted to drive, so he let her, scrunching down in the passenger’s seat and watching the city draw steadily nearer as he waited for her to say something.

At last, when L.A. was less than a mile ahead, she spoke.

“I really don’t know you.”

Would you like to?

He kept his eyes on the roadside. “Until tonight you haven’t shown much interest in knowing me.”

“Until tonight you haven’t shown me that you can be anything besides an asshole.”

The banter wasn’t angry; it was almost flirty, the way they usually communicated. But Sark remained tense. Much as he wanted Sydney to know him, the cold, hard truth was that the plan Irina had set in motion dictated that she couldn’t know much about him. She certainly couldn’t know that he knew about her double-agent status, or that he knew the CIA had Irina in custody, or that he knew Irina fully intended to betray the CIA and her daughter’s new-found trust.

That made it impossible for him to say, You can get to know me. We can make this work. This can be the start of something.

She was waiting for those words, he realized. Waiting for something he couldn’t, for the time being, offer her.

Because the Credit Dauphine parking garage was undoubtedly replete with video and audio surveillance, Sydney parked the Mercedes a block away in an empty drugstore parking lot. It was now going on four-thirty in the morning; the tiniest hint of gray had crept into the coal-black sky.

“Look,” Sydney said, tucking her hair behind her ears in a way that betrayed her nervousness, “I was sort of vulnerable tonight. There’s this – guy – I don’t know, you don’t want to hear this.” She ducked her head and pushed out a shaky breath.

The handler. The tall, dark and handsome CIA agent.

“Go on,” Sark prompted, more for her benefit than anything, because he really didn’t want to hear about another man in her life.

“It’s just that, since my fiancé died, I haven’t really been able to…connect…with anyone. My friends can’t really know what I do, and my dad and I don’t have that open of a relationship – at least not about personal things – so my life can be very lonely. And sometimes, when you aren’t being a complete asshole,” Sark shared her smirk, not bothering to protest, “you seem lonely, too. Like, I feel you watching me sometimes, in the office, and I think you’re going to come over and talk to me, but you don’t.”

Because that happens every five minutes. Like tonight, when I should have gone out that bloody back exit and left well enough alone.

Sark watched his finger trail along the leather seat, unable to meet her eyes. “I find you interesting. But you’ve always made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me, so I’ve kept my distance.”

“It’s not repulsion, Sark. It’s self-protection.” That honest admission succeeded in bringing his eyes back to hers. “I don’t know what your motives are. I don’t know why you’re here at SD-6. I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and it just seemed safer to stay out of your way until I figured out what you’re after.”

So she was admitting that she had wanted this to happen for quite a while, the same as he had. That gratification was tempered by what he had to say next.

Sark considered his words carefully. “I’m sure you can appreciate what it’s like to not be free to be as honest with someone as you would like.” Sydney nodded. “Right now, I’m simply not at liberty to discuss what my business is with Mr. Sloane, or what my motives are for being here at SD-6.”

A subtle yet distinctive change settled over Sydney’s features. Sark helplessly watched the walls go back up between them; to reveal Irina’s plans to Sydney would have been to sign his own death warrant, and he hadn’t risen to the top with astonishing speed by going soft over anyone.

Not even over Sydney Bristow.

“I hope you can understand,” he added, daring to extend the olive branch once more.

Sydney shrugged. The fire in her eyes had been replaced by the cool reserve she usually treated him with. “I guess it’ll all come out in time.”

Stop her. Don’t let her go back to hating you. Tell her how you feel, at least.

That won’t be enough for her. You know Sydney. It’s all or nothing – the whole truth or don’t even waste your fucking breath.

So he silently followed her out of the car and came around to meet her on the driver’s side. “I can drive you back to your car,” he offered, knowing she would refuse.

“I’ll be fine. I could use the walk.”

She didn’t immediately step away from him as he had expected. Sark searched her eyes, looking for a clue as to what she wanted him to do next – drive away or kiss her good-bye.

Sydney made the decision for him. Taking a step forward, she caught the front of his shirt and kissed him softly on the mouth. She didn’t close her eyes, and neither did he.

Never take your eyes off the enemy.

The kiss ended far too soon, leaving Sark slightly breathless. “Perhaps I could call you.” He aimed for nonchalance and fell more toward desperate hopefulness

Brushing her fingertips across the tiny bruise she’d made on his neck, Sydney replied, “Call me when you can tell me the truth.”

Her eyes came back up to his, sad but determined, as her hand dropped back to her side. “Just don’t wait too long, or I might not still be interested.”

Sark stood beside the Mercedes and watched her walk away until she disappeared around the corner. Sighing, he realized how exhausted he was – physically and mentally. Dawn was stealing over the city, and what he really needed right now was a stiff drink and a long bath.

Sliding behind the wheel again, he chanced a glance in the rearview mirror. Sydney’s car was leaving the Credit Dauphine parking garage and turning south, toward her apartment.

Sark rested his forehead against the wheel and shut his eyes, suddenly wishing he had left by the back way tonight.