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AN EXERCISE IN CONTROL (continued...)

By Rhien Elleth

* * *

Sydney didn't take Sark 's herbal remedy because she hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Maybe, since she'd managed to sleep once without dreaming, she could manage it again, but on her own this time.

She slept in a pair of satin pajamas, curling up on her side of the bed and pulling the covers up around her. She stared into the darkness for a long time, puzzling over Sark 's strange behavior, unable to come up with an explanation for it. Sark was always... Sark . But tonight had been different. He hadn't baited her, exactly. Instead, he'd been deliberately cutting in both his actions and his comments. She couldn't fathom it.

Had something changed since the last time they'd spoken? Clearly, he was angry with her. Just as clearly, he wasn't going to discuss with her whatever it was. Just perfect, she thought. Whatever the issue, it was bound to make tomorrow evening difficult, at best.

She used the problem to occupy her mind until sleep started to pull at the edges of her perception. Consuming champagne earlier had helped, however small the amount.  It was one form of alcohol that always made her sleepy, and although she usually abstained from drinking it for precisely that reason, tonight she welcomed the effects.

Unfortunately, unlike the herbs, champagne failed to make her sleep dreamless. If anything, it intensified the effects. Every emotion from that fateful, horrid day felt magnified under the lens of the dream.  Her desperation to talk her mother back in. Her shock and anger at seeing Vaughn there, at the altercation that followed. 

She'd asked herself the question a thousand times since that moment, but she couldn't help but ask it again: if he'd loved her, really loved her, couldn't he have left Irina to her?  Given her the opportunity to save her mother's life, form some sort of relationship with the woman?

At the very least, couldn't he have let someone else pull the trigger?

The clearest moment of that day, the moment that she couldn't, wouldn't forget, was always at the end.  Kneeling beside her mother on the ground, blood soaking into the knees of her pants, sprayed across her shirt, her neck, her face. The smell of it made her sick. Irina's eyes were sightless, her face lax in death. Her hand clutched the object she'd been reaching for, a small, leather bound book she'd had tucked into her waistband. A flashing glimpse of the black leather might have looked like the grip of a gun, from farther away. Sydney would never be sure. 

She looked up at Vaughn as he came to stand over her, watched the play of emotions across his face as he looked down, and realized what Irina was holding. That she hadn't been reaching for a gun at all. Shock, confusion, fear, anger. But the most damning emotion of all was the one that didn't make an appearance, not even as he holstered his own gun and turned to look at her.

Regret.

Vaughn did not regret what he'd done, and she would never be able to forgive him for that.

She woke gasping for breath, the hot feel of tears burning behind her eyes. The sheets were a tangled, sweaty mess twisted around her, and it took several long moments before she got her emotions and breathing back under control. 

Then she remembered Sark, and rolled over onto her back to make sure she hadn't woken him. But he wasn't there. His side of the bed was smooth and empty. Moonlight streamed in through the open window, and she could see quite easily that he had yet to come to bed. She frowned, brushing a hand over his clearly untouched pillow.

"You didn't take the pills, Sydney ." His voice reached out from the shadows of the room, made her freeze mid-motion. "Why?"

He was sitting in darkness, slouched in the room's only chair. She couldn't see his face, that corner of the room drenched completely in shadow, but a sliver of pale moonlight caught the edge of a short glass tumbler as he lifted it to his lips. She half sat up, her heart suddenly pounding. He'd been sitting here, awake, she realized. Watching her.

She licked lips gone suddenly dry.

"Ah - I wanted to see if I could sleep without them. Peacefully."

"It appears you can't, as yet."

Suddenly angry, she flung the sheets aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The dream relived one of the worst, most intensely personal experiences of her life. She hated the idea that he'd seen her at so vulnerable a moment, that she hadn't been aware of it. Even more, that she'd wished for his presence right after waking, and been disappointed to find its lack. 

Not that it meant anything. It was just comforting, somehow, to know another human being slept quietly nearby after she woke from one of her nightmares.

But Sark was not sleeping, and very unfortunately, not quiet.

"It's my choice what I want to risk, Sark ," she said, barely keeping her tone even. She stood up, turned around so she was facing him. She hated that she was arguing with someone whose face she couldn't see clearly.  "Even if you're rude enough to watch a private moment you had no business witnessing, you could at least choose not to comment on it."

He said nothing, just took another lazy drink from the glass, and Sydney 's anger boiled over.  She didn't think about what she was saying before the words tumbled from her lips.

"You smug son of a bitch! I have a right to my privacy. I will not share the most painful moments of my life with one of Sloane's trumped up errand boys. Find some other way to feed your inflated ego and twisted curiosity."

Anyone else would have reacted to the verbal slap she'd just handed him. Sark simply shrugged and stood up, casually, as if she and the words she hurled were of little consequence to him.  If Sydney had been paying better attention, she would have noticed the slight unsteadiness to his step as he walked toward her. But all she saw was the smirk twisting Sark 's lips.

He paused in the shaft of moonlight, staring down at the amber liquid still in his glass as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"That's quite the accusation, coming from you, Sydney.  Why, according to Sloane, you're the most loyal lackey he's ever had."

His tone was conversational, as if they were two friends sharing a casual talk, and the import of his words didn't hit her immediately. When their meaning registered, Sydney 's mouth tightened.  She forced herself to speak past a clenched jaw. She wanted nothing in the world so badly as to wipe that smirk from Sark 's face.

"Sloane likes to think of me as a daughter, as his most loyal agent. I do my job, and I'm good at it. But I'm no lackey, Sark . I'm not like you. I don't enjoy boot licking."

He looked up, met her eyes, and she almost stumbled away from him. It was as if all of the emotion he refused to show in either his face or his voice shone out through the intensity of his eyes. She had to suck in a breath and stiffen her spine to stand her ground.   And yet, when he spoke, his words were soft and controlled.

"Why don't we discuss what's really bothering you, Sydney? Why don't we talk about your mother, and this man who killed her."

Her face went white. Shock robbed her of breath, froze her limbs, almost drained her of anger. How had he known? No one inside SD-6 except her father knew about Vaughn.

As if he could read her mind, Sark smiled insolently. 

"You talk in your sleep," he said, and raised his glass to take a drink.

Sydney didn't remember moving. There was a moment immediately after Sark spoke, when everything went blank and numb. And then the anger surged back in to fill the void, so hot she burned with it.

The next thing she knew, her palm stung and throbbed, and she'd struck his glass from his hand. It tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents all over the expensive, 18^th century Turkish rug.

Sydney opened her mouth -- about to tell him never to bring up her mother again -  but Sark 's laconic attitude was gone. Suddenly his hands were on her arms, his fingers bruising her skin, his face inches from hers.

"You spoiled little bitch!" he said, punctuating each word with a flexing of his fingers, as if he really wanted to shake her senseless. "Do you know how much effort I've made to accommodate your fucking emotional issues?  How many times I've covered for you when you've been sloppy? How many missions you would have failed without me? Do you?"

For a humming five seconds, they both stood frozen, Sydney 's eyes wide and startled, and trapped by the intensity of his gaze. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, barely remembered how to breathe.

She hadn't intended to strike him. She wished now that she hadn't. There was something profoundly dangerous about Sark when he was roused to anger.  She'd never seen him lose control like this, and it occurred to her to wonder how much he'd had to drink.

Heartbeat thrumming in her ears, Sydney cleared her throat, and wet her lips with her tongue. Sark 's gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth to follow the movement, and as quickly as that, the threat of imminent violence was gone.

It shifted somehow, changed slightly, and suddenly Sydney was all too aware of how close they were standing, of Sark 's hands still gripping her arms, though the force of his grip had eased slightly. He stood close enough for her to notice the darker circle of blue around the lighter irises of his eyes; close enough to smell the brandy he'd been drinking; to feel heat radiating through the light silk of his shirt.

To shiver as his breath whispered across her skin.

He was going to kiss her.  She realized it about half a second before his head bent, before his lips hovered expectantly over hers. It was half a second in which  she could have pulled away, taken a step back, said something to break the suddenly charged mood.

But she did none of those things. Sark bent his head, and she could feel the blood racing through her veins, the flush heating her body as she parted her lips, waiting, expecting...

He was gone so suddenly she stumbled, scarcely keeping herself from falling. She'd been leaning into his grip, she realized in embarrassment.  Caught up in a moment that never should have happened.

She blinked, reorienting herself to where Sark was, to where she was, to what they both were doing.

His back was to her as he bent to pick up the spilled glass. He used a handkerchief from his pocket to soak up the worst of the alcohol. Sydney watched, and crossed her arms protectively over her chest in an unconsciously defensive move.

He nearly kissed me, she thought. Dear Lord, how could that have happened?

Sark turned around as he stood, his expression when he faced her cool and distant. She could only see emptiness in his eyes, now, and wondered if there had ever really been anything else in them. Perhaps she'd imagined that moment.

"I think it's best if I sleep in the outer room," he said coolly, "when you go back to bed, sleep on the other side.  That ought to be  enough for the hotel staff."

He moved for the door, brushing by her as he went, and she turned, touching his arm lightly before she thought the action through. A muscle in his jaw jumped, and the flesh of his arm felt hard and taut beneath her hand.

" Sark --"

He stopped briefly, not looking at her. His voice was smoothly cultured and impersonal, and if she hadn't known better, she'd have thought the entire altercation moments before had never happened. 

"You're mother's dead, Sydney. Life goes on. Get over it."

As he'd probably intended, her hand dropped back to her side, and he continued unimpeded through the doorway. 

It was a long time before sleep came to Sydney again that night.

The Fête

Sark left for the fête early. He told himself he wanted the chance to feel out Chevalier without Sydney beside him. He told himself it was best to keep her as distant from the man as possible, that Lucien Évariste would not wish to expose his young, lovely wife to a business man of Chevalier's dubious qualities. It was, after all, why the real Lucien had intended to refuse Chevalier's gracious invitation.

But in reality, he knew he was lying.

What he wanted was a little breathing room, time away from Sydney before they were forced into the parts they were playing. Sark had never before questioned his ability to play and discard any role as necessity dictated.  But after last night, he was no longer sure.

They exchanged a handful of words over the course of the day, enough to iron out their game plan, decide on the exact timetable they had to work with. Then Sark showered, changed and left while Sydney was still getting ready. He reminded her through the closed bathroom door not to forget her mask.

Chevalier was fond of grandiose displays, such as a masqué provided him. For himself, Sark wore a classic black domino, a half mask that left the bottom half of his face uncovered. It matched his tux, and he detested overzealous demonstrations.

The limo dropped him at the front entrance to the gothic Palais des Popes, long hailed as the largest, most impressive cathedral in all of Europe. It was built with a two-fold purpose - as a fortress of war, and a monument intended to show power through sheer magnificence. Its builders had intended that it outshine Rome , and indeed, it was difficult to dispute their success. The stone walls rose to touch the sky, two towers standing sentinel on either side of the main entrance. Parapets lined the roofline, a grim reminder of religious politics of the 14^th century.

He ordered the driver back to the hotel for Sydney , and walked up the length of plush carpet, invitation in hand. style='color:blue'> One of four guards -- in tuxes themselves -- took the fanciful bit of black vellum from him, glanced at it and nodded him through.

The inside was just as impressive as the exterior, the walls hung with religious tapestries and paintings, the ceilings decorated with frescoes. The exhibition, which held a number of religious artifacts in addition to the Rambaldi pages, was housed in the Great Court under a good deal of electronic security. Not that Sydney would have to worry about that so much, with Marshall taking care of the particulars.

The fête was in a neighboring room, the long, rectangular Hall of Great Audience, where beautiful arches lined the ceiling and flowed down to the floor in a row of elegant pillars. It was already crowded, filled with sparkling crystal and swirling lengths of silk. Tuxedoes appeared among the crowd as black dots among a spray of colors, the women wearing everything from emerald silk to lavender chiffon. The masks added a third dimension, many men preferring simple dominos, like Sark's, while the women favored more elaborate pieces dotted with jewels and feathers.

Servers in formal white coats carried trays of champagne, and a bar was set up to one side of the room, if guests preferred stronger spirits. Sark ignored both. He wanted nothing to cloud his head tonight.

A small orchestral group played at one end of the room, selections designed for dancing, much of it slow and close.  Perfect. For the Évariste's, if not for Sark and Sydney . He stood at the edge of the room, surveying, searching, cataloging.

"Lucien?" said a voice at his elbow, and Sark turned to find his quarry beside him.  "Lucien Évariste? I did not recognize you without your belle wife beside you."

Chevalier was a younger man than he should have been, for one so wealthy and powerful, but then he and Évariste were two of a kind in that way. He was dark to Sark 's light, his hair and eyes black behind the domino he wore of the same color. A handsome man, he smiled charmingly and extended a hand to Sark . On his arm stood a beautiful blond, her lips painted deep burgundy to match her dress and mask, her eyes a vibrant green Sark suspected were colored contacts.  She stood with more poise than a doxy would have, and Sark assumed that she was a member of the same social class as Chevalier. His assumption was affirmed a moment later, when she raised her glass to her lips. A diamond of at least two carats, likely more, sparkled on her finger.  Intelligence had said nothing of Chevalier's engagement.

"It's good to finally meet you," he said neutrally, and shook the man's hand. "My wife will be joining me shortly." He allowed himself a fond smile. "I wished to meet you before she arrives, for after she does, I'm afraid I will be unavailable for business until the time of our appointment. I wanted very much to spend this evening with her, you see, and I am a selfish man."

Chevalier laughed, his eyes sparkling. "Ah, yes, I have heard this of you, Monsieur.  It is said you are besotted with your young American, and she with you."

Sark shrugged, allowed his gaze to move to the woman beside Chevalier, and the prominent diamond on her left hand.

"Does a man marry for any other reason?" he asked. 

"No, indeed. Allow me to introduce you to my fiancée, Colette. She is the light of my existence." Chevalier leaned down as he spoke, lifting her hand to brush her fingers with his lips. She smiled, first at him, then at Sark .

"I hope you will not be keeping Gerard late this evening, Monsieur Évariste."

"I promise not to. My wife will never forgive me if I am late myself, after all.  I promised her a romantic stroll along the Rhône tonight."

"Ah, very good." Chevalier chose to read what he wanted into Sark 's words. "Then our business should be short, and one hopes, successful."

Sark 's eyes moved beyond the other man, fixed on something over his left shoulder.

"One does, indeed," he murmured, his tone appropriately distracted.

He would have recognized Sydney regardless of what she wore, but she'd chosen simplicity over glamour, and the look suited her. For the benefit of his audience, he made sure his eyes warmed when he saw her, and parted his lips in wordless appreciation. It didn't take much effort.

Her dress was long and simple, a silver sheath that began with tiny straps made up of sparkling Austrian crystals sewn into the fabric, and ending in a small train that barely brushed the floor. It flowed behind her, giving the impression of floating as she walked. The rest of the dress clung to her curves, the neckline dipping low enough to reveal the inner swell of each breast, while still retaining modesty. She wore a diamond pendant that swung between them, catching the light every time she moved, and matched by the stones that dripped from her ears. The diamonds were real, Sark knew. As real as the those on her finger. style='color:blue'>

Her shoes were three-inch heels, silver, and crystal studded like the straps to her gown. Her mask, too, matched the dress as though made for it. Another domino that circled only her eyes, it continued the theme of silver and sparkle, the crystals lining its outer edge. She wore her hair up, sleekly pulled back into a complicated knot that looked vaguely Celtic in design, and left her shoulders bare.

It was understated elegance, a look designed to enhance her own beauty, and not overshadow it. And when she paused in the doorway, moved to accept a glass of champagne from one of the servers stationed there, Sark glimpsed only bare skin as she turned. The dress dipped all the way to her waist, the crystal straps lining either side of her naked back, showcasing the smooth expanse of skin.

An image flashed in his head, one of dancing with her, his hands on that skin, and his throat went completely, painfully dry. For a second he struggled for control, fought to keep his body in check. He swore internally, wished to God that the night before had never happened, that he'd never allowed his control to slip around her. How long would they have to dance together? An hour?

Chevalier's chuckle brought him back to himself, reminded him of the role he was supposed to be playing.

"I will let you go, my friend, and meet with you later. As you say, when she is in the room, you have eyes for nothing else, eh?" He glanced at the TAG Heuer watch he wore. "Shall we say, nine o'clock ? I will meet you by the entrance then."

He left , taking Colette with him, and Sark glanced at his own watch. It was a little after seven. Almost two hours. He sucked in a breath, bit back another oath. It appeared he had little choice in the matter.

Sark fixed a smile on his face, and crossed to Sydney . He would play his part as necessary, and he would do it well.  He strode to her side, leaned down and brushed his lips along her neck in a particularly loving gesture.

" Tu m'enchates, mon amour," he whispered, careful to speak French.

She hadn't been expecting it. He could tell by the small breath she inhaled, the way her eyes widened slightly, the slight shiver she gave as his lips touched her skin.  He pulled her arm through his, felt the tension in her body as he did so. He nearly frowned, caught himself, and leaned close to her ear. With her heels, they were very nearly the same height.

"Relax," he breathed. "Elise Évariste would not be uncomfortable at the attentions of her husband."

She smiled at him, radiant, and only he could see the way her eyes narrowed behind her mask. She did not appreciate his reminder, though her arm did relax. She took a swallow of champagne, never taking her eyes from his, then held out the still half full glass for a server to take. She leaned into him, and the scent of her perfume - something light and sultry -wafted around him. She spoke in French as well.

"Let's dance, ma amour," she said softly.  "I want to feel your arms around me."

Her eyes glittered with challenge, and Sark knew she was proving herself, her ability to play Elise to perfection. Dancing also kept the servers with their flutes of champagne away from them, an added bonus, he was sure, to Sydney 's thinking.

And the Évariste's, by all reports, loved dancing.

He laughed , low and husky, and lifted her hand to his lips, much as Chevalier had done with Colette moments ago.  He said nothing, but led her to the dance floor and pulled her into his arms.

* * *

Despite how smoothly they glided together across the floor, Sydney hadn't quite regained her balance since that first glimpse of Sark . The tuxedo fit him to perfection, but then, they'd been measured for the clothes before leaving L.A. color:blue'> It enhanced his broad shoulders and narrow waist. And his eyes seemed brighter, bluer than usual, encircled by the black domino.  They'd nearly glowed as he smiled at her.

Then he'd shocked her with that caress of lips over her throat. Wasn't he overplaying it, just a bit? Or perhaps she was just being too sensitive. She'd spent a restless night, analyzing every word, every nuance of their argument and what had almost happened after. She was reasonably certain her first impression was correct - Sark had almost kissed her. And she'd almost let him.

It was a galling and nerve-wracking realization. And she had no idea what to do about it, if anything. He was still her enemy. He worked for Sloane. It would be unwise, wouldn't it, to think of him in any other capacity?

But it was hard to remember any of that while she floated across a dance floor in his arms. His eyes reminded her of last night, intense and warm, staring at her face as if he would memorize it, as if he could see right through all of her many masks. Which in itself was a dangerous thought. She tried to remind herself that he was Lucien, staring adoringly at Elise. Not Sark . Not Sydney .

And then his hand touched her back lightly, his fingers trailing a path down her spine. She couldn't quite keep from gasping, or stop the shudder that followed his touch.

Was he doing this deliberately? Baiting her? Goading her? Or did he merely play his part too well? With the way he looked tonight, especially aided by the mask, she could almost forget who he was. Almost pretend he was someone else. Someone she could be free to respond to when he touched her.

But he isn't, she reminded herself sternly, deliberately moving closer to him. She rested her head against his shoulder, and with a sigh, closed her eyes.  He's Sark .

His hand continued to stroke her back, the movement both loving and possessive to those who watched them. It stirred restless feelings in Sydney , made things tighten deep in her gut, things she should never have felt with Sark , regardless of the  situation. Her breath was coming a bit faster than before, and not from the dancing, though she hoped he attributed it to that.

" Tu es si belle," he whispered suddenly, and his lips grazed her shoulder. " Je souhaiterais que nous soyions seuls, je pourrais te montrer à quelle point tu es belle."

The murmured words had as deep an effect on her as the feel of his lips pressed against her skin. Her hands tightened on his arms involuntarily, and she faltered a step. Sark covered for it smoothly, whirling her around. You are so beautiful, he'd said. I wish we were alone, so I could show you how beautiful. He couldn't mean, that, surely? Other dancers were all around them, certainly close enough to hear, but even so, why say it unless it was necessary?

She lifted her head, looked up at him. She could feel the pulse beating at her throat, and the room was suddenly uncomfortably warm. She opened her mouth, intending to say something in character that might help her to discern his motives.

"You dance divinely together," an unfamiliar voice said in heavily accented English from behind her. She turned her head, saw a man who could only be Chevalier dancing beside them with a sultry blond woman. "I can see what Monsieur Évariste admires so deeply, Madame."

Sydney smiled as if delighted, but inside she felt a wash of adrenaline. This is why he said that, she thought. Nothing more.

"You speak very good English, Monsieur," she commented. "You are acquainted with Lucien?"

She sent a glance at Sark, arching an eyebrow as if in question. He tightened his hold on her, pressed her against him in a way that could only be interpreted as possessive.  His hand splayed across her back, his fingers warm and slightly rough.

"This is Gerard Chevalier, mon chérie," Sark replied, taking his cue. "A business associate."

"Ah, of course. Business." Sydney wrinkled her nose slightly as if the thought was of distaste to her. She lifted a hand and touched a finger to Sark 's lips, traced them lightly as she allowed a flirtatious smile to curve her mouth. "But we are not discussing business now, are we darling?"

He captured her hand, his eyes holding hers, and slowly, deliberately placed a kiss on the sensitive inner flesh of her wrist. A wave of heat rolled through her, and Sydney knew he could see it in her eyes. Knew by the way his suddenly darkened. Or was that merely manufactured for Chevalier's benefit?

"No," he said softly. "No business." He spoke to the man beside them without looking away from Sydney . "You'll excuse us, of course?"

"Of course," Chevalier replied good-naturedly, but Sark was already  whirling her away.

Sydney suddenly wished she still had that glass of champagne. She needed something to cool her down, something to wet her throat, a moment free of Sark 's arms to steady herself. She took a deep breath, hoping that would help. It had the unfortunate effect of brushing her breasts against his chest, instead. Her nipples tightened. She closed her eyes, trying to keep the mortification from showing  on her face, in her eyes.  She prayed he didn't notice, but the dress did cling.

It was irrefutable evidence.  Sark affected her. Aroused her. And the very idea frightened her down to her bones.

"Elise?" he asked softly, his lips far, far too close to her ear. "Are you all right, mon amour?

She opened her eyes. Hoped her voice didn't sound too breathless as she said, "I could use something to drink, I think. Some champagne, perhaps? Just a swallow or two."

"Of course, chérie."

Sark stepped back, guided her from the floor with a hand at her back. Which didn't help in the slightest. What in God's name had possessed the person responsible for mission wardrobe to pick this dress? Sydney intended to find them when she got back to L.A. , and have a very strongly worded conversation.

Sark smoothly grabbed two glasses from a passing tray, handed one to her. She took it gratefully. For that one moment, anyway, he wasn't touching her. Thank God. She took an impressive swallow.

Sark leaned over her, brushed a hand over her hair, but his voice was serious when he spoke. Sark 's voice, not Lucien's.

"Are you all right?"

She glanced up, met his eyes, felt something hot lance through her at the look in them. Stormy. Dark. Like last night, only more so.

"How long before your business?" she asked, trying to keep the words neutral in case anyone could overhear. It was surprisingly difficult to keep her voice steady.

He frowned .

"A bit more than an hour." He paused, seemed to consider that himself. "I think I could move up the meeting, though.  I told him I'd promised you a walk along the Rhône. I could say you were impatient to get me alone."

He smiled as he said it, touched her neck, brushed her collarbone in a light caress. Sydney swallowed, feeling her pulse hammering. It isn't me, she reminded herself. It's Lucien, speaking to Elise. All part of the show.

She smiled, leaned into him with her hand splayed across his chest. "Do," she said simply.

He left her side quickly, weaving his way through the dancers. Sydney watched him for a moment, and then turned, making her way for the door.

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