Title: Home
Before Dark (1/1)
Author: Rez
Rating:
NC-17
Timeline:
Any time after 2.14, “Double Agent”
Summary:
Syd takes a (
Disclaimer:
Alias and its characters are the property of J.J. Abrams/Bad Robot
Productions.
Archive: Cover
Me, Dark Enigma.
Feedback: Cherished:
lo_rez @ adelphia.net
A/N: Thanks
to Meghan—beta goddess—without whom, nothing.
The
airplane tilts, giving her a flash of the horizon over the Pacific, smudged and
sulfurous: the
It’s
crowded. Customs, Immigration, and a nauseating cab ride still ahead, the haze
of exhaust overpowering, with the offshore wind blowing. And home to an empty
house. Or maybe not empty, but not filled with anything she wants anymore.
Friends
whose love is—face it—pretty much irrelevant. The guilt that starts
with Danny’s blood on her hands and just goes on forever. And then
there’s Michael Vaughn: his murdered father, his stormy green eyes, the
hopeless feeling that chokes her, lately, when they’re together.
The Bristow wolf-pack. The thought’s so familiar there’s a kind of detachment
about it. Train wrecks a specialty.
And the
worst is, it’s all so stale.
The job: for
a while it was a drug, a total rush. Now it’s more like a joke—this latest
travesty in
Hoping the whole time for just one excuse to kick the living shit out of
someone.
She sees
herself choking, smothering; watches, coldly, her own flirtation with recklessness,
with outright suicide. Don’t think about it. She sucks in a lungful of concourse
air, tainted with jet fuel, and feels it burn. Just don’t think about it.
She puts
her head down, moves with the crowd, not caring where she’s headed.
*
There’s a clank
and a sudden drag on her progress: colliding carry-ons.
The world snaps into focus. Lifting her head at random, she sees fair hair,
dark suit, blue eyes, the hell? —Coming her way. Her whole body contracts. She’s miles from any conscious
decision; all she knows is she was drowning a second ago,
and it feels like someone’s just grabbed her and pulled her to the surface. She
moves.
Wrenches the wheels free, no apology. Keeps a line on
the blond, slipping crosswise through the stream of bodies. He stops at
a door in the concourse, lifts a hand to the lock: Air
A uniformed
beauty intercepts her, smiling but decisive. “Pardon, mademoiselle, il faut que
je vous demande—”
Her quarry
doesn’t react. He’s across the room, standing at the huge window, already on
the phone. It’s him: the set of the shoulders, the easy balance, silhouetted in
the hazy light. She shivers.
“Pardon,”
she interrupts. “Si vous
me permettrez ...” Hesitates, lets embarrassment
show. “I saw an old friend come in—” points with her chin. “I have only a few
minutes, if you’ll allow me just to say hello …“
“Of course, mademoiselle.” But she knows she’ll be watched.
*
The
adrenaline rush fades and now it’s all feeling very scattered. You’re losing
it, Bristow.
—While he’s looking straight at you,
speaking into the phone, utterly collected, totally focused.
Blue. Eyes.
Jesus.
The
attendant’s watching, so she smiles at him. He nods back, effortlessly on cue,
and there it is again, the sensation of breathing, finally, after too long
without air. Something flashes through her and it feels huge, reaching for the
man across the room, and he’s coming toward her now as if in reply, the blue stare
unwavering on her face. What the fuck is wrong with you, Bristow?
“No, I’m
afraid it will have to be tomorrow,” he’s saying into the phone. A pause. “Something’s come up. Tomorrow.”
He pockets the phone. What are you doing, Bristow?
“Enchanté de te
voir, ma belle.” His mouth barely brushes her
cheek.
“Kate Jones.
Speak English,” she says softly, turning her face for the second kiss. No
answer, but there’s the smile. He finishes by kissing both her hands, one after
the other, his celestial eyes measuring and cool.
She looks
back at him, trying for equilibrium, her memory always sharp where he’s
concerned. An old adversary, her mother’s heir and favorite: a formidable man,
under the smooth pose, all chilled down and thinking eight moves ahead of
everyone else. But that’s not new. So why is her belly in knots?
But she
knows why, knew the instant he took her hands. I’m insane. She breaks the
contact but she’s overwhelmed. Oh, god, this is really dangerous. More personally
threatening than any close call in Taipei or Paris, where you ride the edge of
disaster on sheer nerve—and leave your failures for the locals to clean up. Get
a grip, damn you.
“I saw you
passing,” she says, dry-mouthed. “If
you’re not leaving immediately, I thought we could talk, catch up on things.” But she’s pretending, at this point: off the clock, protocol forgotten
about ten deep, oxy-loaded breaths ago. Feel like going up in smoke
today? Behind them the attendant’s watching. Smiling.
He’s silent
for a moment, considering her. She knows she’s radiating—something; knows he’s
feeling it. She’s travel-stained and tired. It doesn’t matter at all.
“Kate,
darling,” he says. “You look hungry. My hotel has a decent kitchen. Are you
free?”
She decides
she is.
*
His driver
meets her as she emerges from Customs, mysteriously sure of her identity. Mr.
Sark will be returning shortly, would she care to relax at the hotel? Or wait,
as she pleases. The hotel, she decides, and puts up the glass partition, tuning
the man out as they pull away. He’s on the phone as soon as they’re rolling.
After ten
hours in the air, she’s going to be an embarrassment in the lobby of the Mondrian, or maybe he’s at the Chateau; that’ll be worse.
But they’re heading west, not east, taking surface streets. She’s too tired to
care. And, somewhere beyond that, too appalled and much too focused on what
she’s about to do. Why now, Bristow, for godssake?
Some sick little maneuver to make the split with Vaughn, finally? She won’t even have to tell him. She’ll
be too guilty to look him in the face, much less touch him. And he’ll know the
what, but never in several eternities would Michael Vaughn, Galahad lover, guess
the who. She flashes on blue eyes, on hands sliding against
hers, hears herself take a breath. What’s your
mantra, Bristow? She unclenches her fists, looks at the red half-moons her
nails have made.
It’s a
short drive. They pull up at the portico of a small hotel right on the beach: Hermosa, and the place is new. When she used to surf here
people got death threats just for mentioning the idea.
But things
change. Right, Bristow?
*
The
concierge greets her by name: Ms. Jones. Mr. Sark has asked him to say—you’ll
wait? Delightful. Top floor, and do enjoy your visit.
Trust
And it is,
she admits, marvelous. Nothing but glass on the ocean side.
His luggage sits next to the dressing room off the master bedroom. She looks
around but doesn’t touch the bags. This will be an exchange, possibly the
beginning of a cooperative arrangement. Freelancing works, sometimes. She catalogues
what she’ll give him, what she’ll ask. Whatever happens after that, she
decides, is none of the Agency’s business.
Pathetic, Bristow. Don’t even start. Anyway, she feels better, more in
control, having organized it. And Vaughn? But
she can’t bear that. She looks around, needing to move.
There’s a
stairway from the balcony and yeah, he’s got the whole rooftop, too. Room for a Roman orgy. A lap pool and a
Jacuzzi, everything. All of it walled off, with glass on the upper half
of the barrier, ocean and sky the only view, and the gulls patrolling both.
She stares
out at it. Even in the dry, hot breeze, it reminds her of things that were
good, never tainted by what came after. Surfing, volleyball,
running on the beach, in that life before she was Irina
Derevko’s daughter.
She checks
for electronics, finds none. She takes the steps back down, three at a time, hungry
and suddenly desperate for a shower.
*
Lunch,
and the allotment of courtesies that constitutes a negotiation of this kind.
Information traded, the criminal for the classified, not so far apart. They eat
red king crab, drink a cold, steely white from
somewhere up north. Her hands are messy with butter, slightly bruised from
prying the shell apart to get at the meat.
And she
hasn’t been still since he arrived, apparently by conjury,
freshly showered, hair wet, and wearing, for godssake,
jeans and a T-shirt. Barefoot, as thoughtlessly elegant in that state as any
other. He looks marvelous in white. She’s out of her chair as soon as
the food’s gone, trying to be casual, checking out the view.
He’s relaxed,
watching her pace—no different, really, from the man in the dark suit: cool and
opaque even here, subtle amusement in his voice. The Agency’ll
be pleased with what she’s learned. It’s just bait, she knows, but it’ll be
good bait.
She prowls
over to the wall, looks out at the water; it’s dark and glassy, the offshore
breeze smoothing the swell. There’s a congress of gulls huddled in the sand
beyond the bike path. She presses her palms into the stucco of the barrier. Harder. Harder. Seduction’s not on
the agenda; he’s already waiting for her, she can feel that. Entertained
by her hesitation, no doubt. Make your move, Bristow.
Too late.
He’s here, sliding his hands under her shirt, fingers spread at the curve of
her waist, pulling her closer till she’s touching him. She gasps, taut as a
bowstring, every synapse on fire. But he’s very still, studying her.
She has a
hard time meeting his gaze, can’t even breathe. Manages,
barely. Sees his mouth with its seraph’s smile, blue
eyes smoked with lust and glittering with amusement. The breeze has
dried his hair; the curling ends look gilded.
“Some
things,” he says, “are simple,” He’s hard as granite against her hip.
He’s
obviously done this a lot more than she has, if that’s what he thinks. If he
moves his hands against her skin one more time she’s going to lose—he moves his
hands, palms light and intimate against her belly. Her body locks, straining
against him. She really can’t breathe. She hears his soft laugh. Bastard.
Just slow down, Bristow. Right, okay.
Fine.
She lifts
her head and kisses him carefully, keeping her hands to herself. He takes the
kiss, following it, not letting her break it off too soon. Very shortly it’s
not so careful, but she gets through it without actually drawing blood. Tastes
the wine they’ve been drinking, hears him take a long breath. But he doesn’t
move, she needs him to move. And the
clothes. She thinks she can manage to get him out of those. Thank god
it’s not the suit.
Her heart’s
slamming. She’s breathing hard and wound tight as piano wire, and
somehow the comedy of that last thought overwhelms her. She drops her head,
hiding her face, letting him take a little more of her weight. But he pulls on
a handful of her hair, gently, till she’s looking at him again.
“Mmm?” he says, and beyond the desperation and embarrassment
she feels like smiling for what seems like the first time in months. It’s no
strain, suddenly, to look back at him.
“It was
nice of you to change your clothes,” she says, a shake of laughter in her
voice, and for an instant they’re conspirators, on the same side, and something
flashes through the cool stare. He meets her kiss harder this time, hands
sliding up her ribcage, down her spine, pulling her more roughly against him. Oh,
god.
“Always go
in with a plan,” he murmurs, and she laughs against his mouth. Another kiss,
hungrier yet, and now it’s worse, or better. She centers herself against him
and this time he does move, hands hard against her
hips. Too fast, Bristow. But she’s got to get
him out of the clothes. She pulls up his shirt, mouth still open against his.
He saves her the trouble, pulling away, stripping casually for her, easy as
breathing. Looking her in the eyes, still cool, still amused. She stops cold.
Real trouble here, Bristow.
How could
she not have guessed. Of course he’s ravishing.
And now the
real joke is, she almost can’t stand to look at him—smooth swell of thigh and
calf, flowing from knees and ankles shapely as a woman’s; shoulders, heavy for
a man so slender; sinewy arms, hips narrow and tense, beautiful, his erection
jutting from a tangle of dark blond fur. His skin’s like cream.
She’s blind,
swamped; the somatic response is overwhelming. She knows, miserably, that she’s
a total fool. Seeing him so unexpectedly—she’d been seized by the simple,
overwhelming urge for him, strong as a riptide, hauling her out to sea. She
never actually took it far enough to picture what he’d be like, only felt the pull
and followed him. And he’s dazzling—and she’s dying for him—and she can’t bring
herself just to tear into him. But. Oh, god.
She sees his slow smile, the challenge in his eyes.
She slams a
hand into the wall, lets the pain clear her head; he grabs her wrist.
“No, no.
Your turn,” he says, but she’s convinced this isn’t going anywhere at all.
Everything hurts. His hand brushes the nipple of her left breast, pulling her
shirt over her head; it’s like sandpaper against a raw scrape. She inhales on a
near-sob, can’t help it. She turns away, wrapping her arms around herself. Feels him behind her, pulling her against him, undemanding, if
amused. He knows what’s wrong.
“Shh,
“Just—give
me a minute, okay?” He sighs, tolerantly, takes her hand, leads her to the edge
of the pool. He turns her toward the water. His bare chest is warm against her
back, and she’s really afraid she’s going to hurt him in another second.
Standing still is not an option.
“Hush,” he
says in her ear. Yeah, that helps.
He reaches
around and undoes the fastening of her jeans, slips his hands inside, slides
them over her hips. She hears his soft laugh when he finds she’s wearing
nothing underneath. She steps out of them with difficulty, legs cramping under
his light, knowing touch. She feels him trail his hands up her thighs and the
curve of her back, lift the hair away from her neck, brush his mouth against
her skin. She shivers, a desperate, humiliating sound climbing out of her
throat. He laughs again, letting her hair fall around her shoulders.
“In you
go,” he says.
She steps in
and it is better, after a few slow laps, the cool water unbearable at first but
gradually narrowing the pathways to sensation, letting her think again. More or less. Not your best day, Bristow. She slips
under the surface for a few lengths, grateful to move without her muscles
knotting. Maybe I’ll just stay right here. One look at him and this will
start all over again.
But she
climbs out. He’s leaning on one arm at the lip of the pool, in the shade,
drinking wine from the bottle. Watching her, calm, provocative,
one foot in the water. Stunning. Gorgeous. She looks away.
“I seem to
have left my manners in
“Very
flattering,” he says. “Have some wine. Beautiful
“Whatever.
You’ve seen it before, right?” He chuckles. Bastard.
“Mm, Paldiski, yes.”
“And the video.” He’s quiet for so long she has to turn. The blue eyes are steady, still
amused.
“Beautiful
But she
can’t really muster much concern, not even about bigger things—the sins he’s
committed, the blood on his hands. He’s too absorbing; she needs all the
concentration she can spare just to fathom his physical presence a few feet
from where she’s standing.
The blond
fur on his legs glints in the bright air. She’s transfixed by the arch of his
foot, how it flexes as he stirs the water lazily. His ankle,
shaped so sweetly, its enchanting line rising smoothly up to the muscled calf,
bunching and sliding under the creamy, gold-dusted skin. The beautiful joinery
of knee and thigh …
She’s aware
of silence. Comes out of her trance to find him studying her, eyes half closed
against the sun. The slow smile again as he raises the bottle to his mouth. Jesus,
Bristow, show some fight, will you?
She
considers him. Reaches back to wring out her hair, watching him watch her. He’s
finished the wine. She saunters over, retrieves the bottle; he looks up at her
through his lashes, her naked thigh inches from his face. Not to mention the
rest of her.
—And it’s
an amazing feeling, the sense of connection. She knows it as a phenomenon of
single combat, a sudden precognitive awareness, telling you how your adversary
will move. She understands to a fraction of a second the precise instant he
decides to touch her. Walks away as he lifts a hand.
He laughs softly, approvingly.
She finds a
full bottle sweating in the cooler, open-mouthed. Setting down the empty one,
she reaches impulsively into the container and scoops out a double handful of
ice, scrubs it down her body, shoulder to ankle, inhaling at the shock, leaving
splashes on the deck. It can’t hurt. She knows he’s not going to let her get very
far without some sort of explanation.
She pulls
the bottle out of the cooler and walks back to his side of the pool, breasts
tight, skin flushed with the cold.
She’ll take
the sunny spot, on the side adjacent to his. She sets the bottle on the corner,
within arm’s reach both ways. She sits, decorous even if mother-naked, folding
her knees, resting on one hip and one arm. She looks at him across the brief
space separating them. Deep breath now, here we go. She says:
“Any questions?” He’s been looking very entertained by her little charade, but the
essential menace of his smile returns at that. He rakes her with a buyer’s
look, deliberate affront.
“Why don’t
we start with the proposition that you’re not whoring for the CIA?” His voice
is pleasant, as always, till you notice the arctic stare. But this one is easy.
“No.” She’s
actually finding this mildly funny. “Wouldn’t work, anyway.
We’re slow but not stupid.” But she’s distracted, starting to lose herself in
theories about where he got those shoulders. They’re not broad and bunchy and
cut, the way Vaughn’s are. They’re heavy and sleek, long smooth muscles all of
a piece when he shifts an arm. He reminds her of her old surf crew. Maybe he
swims. Maybe she should go over and push him into the pool, see what happens.
He might shut up, at least.
His smile
broadens. “But,
She sighs,
reaches for the wine, lifts the bottle and drinks, wipes
her mouth. Reminds herself she’s feeling risk-tolerant today.
“Okay,” she
says. “How’s Irina?” The melt-water stare ices over
completely, his interest now tightly focused on nonessentials. Stupid, Bristow.
She sighs again, replaces the bottle between them. He ignores it.
“Would
you,” he says softly, “like to ask her yourself?” Damn.
“No.
Thanks. I can’t think of anything I want to talk to her about. Just now.” She tries his trick: the emotionless stare
freighted with blunt intention. It seems to work okay. Some of the intensity
fades from the blue eyes.
“I’ve
already told you,” she continues, “I happened to see you passing. I may have
been tagged myself—I should have mentioned that—because I was on my way back
from an operation in
“You know, Sydney,
I’d hate to think of you going to so much trouble for such a little thing.” She’s
got no clever answer for that. “However—gratifying—I might find it personally,”
he adds, in case she missed the sarcasm the first time. He reaches for the wine.
Good boy.
But he’s a
professional. She’s almost forgotten what that’s like. He hands it to her
without drinking.
She’s
ensnared by the shape of his forearm and the potential in his hand around the
green neck of the bottle. She takes it from him obligingly, drinks more than is
wise, passes it back. He gets to his feet. The wine’s
gone warm and the sun’s too much and, well, he looks
like maybe he’s lost interest. The bottle goes back into the cooler. You and me
both, she thinks.
What a freaking comedy, Bristow.
All that half-naked prancing for thugs and creeps, and she can’t even manage to
hook up with a gorgeous blond who probably does this four or five times a week
anyway.
Did any man
ever have a more beautiful ass? And my god, he’s just beautifully hung. She
can’t help staring a little, sighing. He catches the look, damn him, and smiles
sweetly at her.
“Oh, poor
Now that’s
much better. She gives him a smile of her own, feeling her brain register the
alcohol all at once. Or maybe it’s him. Maybe this will work out.
“But I like
you like this, too,” she assures him, blandly. He tilts his head at her.
“Do you
know,
“Oh, sure,”
she says. “Blue-eyed killers are my secret kick.” She’s not going to explain
anything to him. Can’t, anyway.
“But only
incidentally,” he murmurs.
She ignores
that; too complicated.
“No, don’t
go to sleep.” He pulls her up, heads for the shaded dais, piled like
Cleopatra’s barge with silk and cushions. The deck’s hot and tilting, slightly,
under her feet. “Time we were better acquainted.”
But she’s
tightening up, the wine telling her that last note’s too much like a threat.
She pulls up hard. Wait—
“
“
He shows
his teeth. “I’m terrified myself.” Lying bastard.
“More wine?” Laughing blue eyes. She lets him
pull her down beside him onto the silk pile, as if this isn’t why she’s here in
the first place. She doesn’t need more wine.
He lets her
play, stretched against her while she browses. He
keeps his breathing long and slow, moves to give her whatever square inch of
skin pleases her. She hurt him once, and there’s the scar, among numerous
others. She licks it, hears his soft laugh. Admires the slide
of muscle under the skin. Tries her teeth. He
hisses, then sighs, hands flexing against the silk. His
breathing changes. He slows it again. She drags herself against him like
a cat, marking him, humming low in her throat.
He’s good
with his hands. Doesn’t need a playbook. Enjoys
himself, no hesitation—technique in spades. She writhes, can’t stay quiet. How
does he know that? Oh, god—
Kisses, all
kinds, he’s demanding that way. But he holds her off, won’t let her get as far
as she wants, his weight all the advantage he needs unless she really wants to
hurt him. She complains in a low, urgent voice, no words.
“Impulsive
He pulls
her back to him as he kneels, leaning over so he’s close and hot against her.
She fits nicely, splayed shamelessly for him, folding her legs back, her ass
very snug against his groin, almost centered on his cock—but she doesn’t think
she’s ready for that. He feels her resist, tightens his arms, distracted,
murmurs in her ear:
“No, Sydney.
Another time, maybe.” She can’t help it, she laughs,
gasping. Feels him smile against her shoulderblade.
“Quiet,” he says. Goes on with what he’s doing. Which is—
—Wait—
Which—
—Wait, I
want—She grabs both his hands, leans back hard,
takes a deep breath—
“Wait.
Wait.” Feels him go absolutely rigid behind her, too far into
the moment, fighting for control. Hands holding hers too tight, arms
straining, so close, so close—
A quick,
hard breath, and another.
“—Bloody
hell,
“Smooth
talker.” And not very steady herself. God in
heaven, that feels good. Maybe—
Feels him shaking against her. He’s—laughing? Feels his mouth against
her shoulder. He bites. She yelps. Hears his low laugh
again, on another gasp. His voice in her ear, a little ragged:
“Darling
She pulls
away and turns, crouching, to look at him. It’s why she stopped him: she wanted
to see his face.
He’s
kneeling, legs apart, thighs taking the strain of his weight. Sweat crawls down
his belly. His face is vivid; there’s a fascinating tension in the curve of the
angelic mouth and in the cobalt gaze. She reaches to the hollow of his throat, wets
her fingers with the sweat gathering there, sees the blue eyes flicker. He’s
looking at her mouth. What she says is:
“I saw you
passing. That’s all.” She lifts her hand to her mouth. But he’s got her wrist
before she can taste.
“Darling
And she’s
back to the first sight of him at the airport, what happened when he looked at
her: bolt of lightning streaking from her to him. And when he touched her:
shockwave rolling back from him to her: You burn me. I burn you.
Her whole
body’s electric, shaking with potential. She crawls onto him, winds her free
arm around him. Feels more sweat tracking down his neck from his hairline,
darkening the curling ends. She puts her mouth to his slick, salty skin, lost
in him now, body to body, face to face.
“Skeptic,”
she whispers against him, but he’s resigned the game, for once.
They fit
this way, too. She’s arched hard against him, tasting salt and inhaling him,
drunk on his scent: wine and sex and French soap. She’s spread over his legs,
feet braced, her belly against his chest, wanting him inside, exigent, all that
slick heat waiting for a reason. He throws his head back, takes a handful of
her tangled hair as she pushes herself against him, inviting him in. He closes
his eyes.
“Christ.
“I—” she
answers, confession lost on an indrawn breath, and he takes her mouth, finally,
silencing both of them. She lets her weight pull them down, her back against
the twisted silk, arching up to him, demanding; he finds his way into her
quickly, one hard thrust, his mouth heavy against
hers. There’s the incomparable shock of unity, both of them gasping, and he
moves the right way exactly, exactly, oh god, so each slow stroke
draws fire from the precise center of her, straight up her spine and outward in
all directions. He moves, she resists, and the pleasure’s immense. She moves,
he yields, and it’s unbearable. It’s perfection.
There’s one
more thing she wants, but it has to be now, now, now—
“You—,” on
a gasp, as he compels her toward release and she’s praying: God, god—
“You—” And he looks down at her, breathing hard, unreadable even now. She
writhes, reaching for him—
And he
closes his eyes and gives her what she wants, lacing his fingers with hers and
letting himself fall free, plunging into her, no more control—crying out,
finally, as if in pain.
“God—”
She moves with him, claiming him— “Yes—” Surfing the final shudders
of his orgasm onto the first surge of her own— Please yes just a little more
please—she hears his voice in her ear, still rough:
“Come on,
Sydney, show me what you need—” But she’s almost there and he’s heavy and solid
all around her, inside her, his drugged, incandescent gaze holding hers as she
reaches for finality. His weight against her sends her over the edge, easy and
sure; she sighs against his shoulder and comes like the tide turning, wave
after wave after wave.
*
They lie together, his face against her neck, for a long time.
She’s empty. Knows that something wants to grow from the
moment, while she feels his heartbeat slow, but she won’t let it. Some
acts are complete, have no sequel. She thinks of Irina,
how this man connects them now. Maybe this is what corruption is, she thinks,
the feel of his back like stretched satin under her hand.
But that’s
not it. For a moment, behind her closed eyes, she sees—not Irina,
but her father’s face. I know what he knows, now. She feels the cool
breath of an ocean breeze across their joined bodies. The wind’s changed.
He moves,
finally, kissing her with a lazy authority that makes her smile: once—twice—again.
They disengage and she feels the warm track of all that’s left of the encounter
down the inside of her thighs. No questions from him, but the
blue gaze is clear now, with a speculative weight.
She kisses
him in turn, letting him know she’s fine; gets up, feels him watch as she
crosses to the pool and steps in. When she’s done a few slow laps she climbs
back out. He wraps a towel around her and wrings her hair out for her. She
hears his voice behind her:
“I’m flying
to
“Nice
town,” she says. Rotten with dirty money. He
turns her around to face him. The blue eyes are cool again, but that’s familiar
too.
“It should
be profitable. Even amusing.” He lays a finger,
lightly, on the spot between her brows where the frown starts. “The aisle seat
is free, as it happens.”
There: the
feeling of something shifting deep underground,
locking finally into place. Offer renewed.
She’s
caught in the blue gaze, wishing he’d left that alone. Do I get to fuck you
again if I say yes this time? Jack Bristow’s secret thirst for poison tickles
the back of her throat. She feels so tired she could die.
“Blue eyes,”
she says. Silence. “Thank you.” He smoothes a damp
lock of hair behind her ear. She hears the surf sigh onto the beach, pushed by
the new breeze. He kisses her, last time, cool and deliberate, soft and slow: punishment
enough.
“We’ll call
it even,” he says quietly. The gulls are crying, taking to the air now that the
wind’s right.
“I have to
go,” she says. He doesn’t answer. “You stay here.” She wants a clean exit, no
sight of him watching her out the door. She thinks he’ll give her that. He
nods, finally—and he’s out of reach again, unknowable and cold.
She gathers
up her clothes and goes downstairs, dresses quickly, grabs the carry-on. In the
lobby, the concierge tells her that Mr. Sark’s driver
is at her disposal, but she walks up the street and calls a cab.
It’s getting
late. The sunset’s extravagant; it always is when the
It’s just
as well, she thinks. She closes her eyes against the red glare. It’s just as
well.
[End]