by Anne Stuart
So why was he thinking about it? She certainly hadn’t been sending out signals—she’d seemed barely aware of him that night, all her attention focused on her husband. She was still just as deluded as she’d always been, which meant she was the enemy.
Not that he’d counted on her being an asset. He didn’t tend to work well with others. For now she could sleep the drugged sleep she deserved. He’d figure out what to do with her later.
Archer MacDonald stretched out on one of the lounges by the side of the pool, cradling a whiskey in one hand, and considered the day. His treacherous wife amused him—he knew women well enough to recognize that she still wanted him. She was probably smart enough to know he was behind the bullet that had crippled her, and she’d been smart enough to fool him in the first place. He’d been in such a rage when he found out the Committee had managed to infiltrate his life that without thinking he’d given the order to terminate her. First, though, he’d put a hit out on his lawyer, who’d taken so damned long to find out the truth about his doting wife. Then it was Sophie’s turn, but that idiot hadn’t managed a good shot—she’d moved at the last minute—and it had given him enough time to rethink the situation. She was in love with him; he’d never had the tiniest bit of doubt, and she took pleasure in anything he doled out to her. He loved that she was now entirely under his control. She’d had a powerful sexual appetite—that was one of the things he’d liked most about her, and of course he wasn’t going to fuck a cripple, but he’d enjoyed tempting her, bringing in good-looking men when she couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel anything. She hadn’t been interested—again, she was still too in love with him, he knew—and he’d given up on the idea. It was the advent of Malcolm Gunnison that had made him decide to drag her out, like an old, abandoned toy. Gunnison was a different sort of man—there was a chance he’d be more to Sophie’s tastes than the pretty boys he’d brought to the island. Throwing the two of them together could be vastly entertaining. Sophie would be wracked with guilt, and Gunnison would most likely do what Archer wanted him to.
Archer believed Gunnison’s story—he’d had him checked so thoroughly he even knew what the man liked in bed. Still, it didn’t hurt to test Malcolm, and videos of his wife having sex with another man could brighten a boring night. He could even make her watch them, long after Gunnison left.
In the end he never trusted anything or anyone, not even his own knowledge and his instincts. Malcolm Gunnison was a former Committee operative who’d left to become a middleman for a half dozen of the most notorious regimes in the world. He was here at the behest of an Eastern European despot, thinking he could work a deal for Archer’s newest creation. Pixiedust was his baby, the groundbreaking chemical that could wipe out one hundred thousand people in twenty-four hours, with an exponentially expanding death toll in the following days. Such a weapon was a little too dangerous even for Archer—he had no particular desire to see the majority of the earth’s population wiped out. There would be no challenge left. But that was what made Pixiedust so groundbreaking. There was an antidote for it, and a vaccine, which would make anyone exposed to it invulnerable. As long as the antidote was administered by vaccine within twelve hours of exposure, it would work, but it took weeks for the victims to get back on their feet.
That part suited him just fine. If one planned to subdue a rebellious population or conquer a neighboring country, having the majority of the survivors out of commission long enough to install a new infrastructure seemed an excellent plan.
There was a small glitch, but he had every confidence that Chekowsky would take care of it. A twenty-four-hour lead time would enable a man to solidify his power—twelve was a little rushed for effective extortion. Chekowsky could get around this—he was the genius who first invented the stuff, locked away in Archer’s underground laboratories in Texas, and Archer paid him what he was worth. It never did to cheap out when you demanded the best. He could easily have Chekowsky terminated once the Pixiedust formula was perfected, but there was the strong possibility that Chekowsky could come up with something even more valuable. With a mind like Chekowsky’s and the advantages of Archer’s money, there were simply no limits.
Archer had done his best to convince Malcolm Gunnison that he was negotiating with him alone, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate the man. Gunnison was ruthless, deadly, and he was no fool. He had to know Archer was considering other offers.
They would acknowledge that particular problem when they came to it. It was unreasonable to assume that it could be limited to one person, that if someone like Putin bought it in Russia, it couldn’t also be used in the Middle East or in some of the less stable countries of South America. There would be enough to go around for anyone willing to pay Archer’s price.
And a weapon like that could generate income for the buyer as well. Infect the people and then demand an astronomical sum from them for the antidote. Archer would hardly be fool enough to limit such an asset to one buyer, no matter how high the price.
But Archer was a patient man. He could use this delay with Chekowsky to his advantage. While his research and his instincts told him that Malcolm Gunnison was as mercenary and as soulless as he needed to be, Archer was too smart a man not to be aware that things could change.
And there were endless possibilities for amusement. Yes, his treacherous Sophie was still pining for him. But he saw the way she glanced at Malcolm, with dislike and unwilling fascination. He could have a very good time throwing the two of them together, watching the sparks fly. He had cameras everywhere.
No, he was willing to wait. Things happened when they were meant to. He could wait.
Chapter Five
Sophie heard the quiet click of the door as Malcolm Gunnison left her room, and she let out a deep breath. What the hell was that man up to? Didn’t he know Archer had every room bugged, and he’d have no trouble observing his guest prowling around his wife’s bedroom?
She was the only one who knew that. And Gunnison wouldn’t be seen. The inky darkness she’d insisted on made movement indiscernible, but there was always a chance Archer was using some kind of infrared technology, one that picked up on body heat. Not that he had any particular reason to bother with that kind of surveillance for his pathetic, crippled wife, but underestimating Archer was never a good idea.
Her unwanted guest hadn’t made a sound—in fact, she’d been lying there, awake after her series of exercises, and she hadn’t even heard him open the locked door, an impressive feat. There was nothing particularly suspicious about his ability to pick a lock—anyone who came out to Isla Mordita would come from the darker side of society. Mr. Gunnison, if that was even his name, was doubtless a liar, a thief, and a murderer. Archer wouldn’t care—in fact, he’d be more likely to trust him if he came with a suitably criminal pedigree. She wouldn’t put it past Archer to challenge Gunnison to break into her room and leave without waking her up. Of course, Archer thought she was strung out on Vicodin and slept like the dead, and she was happy to foster that impression. She didn’t need anyone to suspect she could get around just fine.
She lay without moving; listening, but she heard nothing, not the sound of his own balcony door closing, not the quiet sound of his movement in the room on the other side of the wall. That was no surprise—the walls were plaster, built for a time without air-conditioning or even electricity, and the thick whitewashed walls muffled everything. There was no way she could be certain he’d returned to his room, no way she could even know whether the opening and closing of the door was a trap.
It didn’t matter. She was stiff from holding herself so still, and besides, what would one of Archer’s criminal associates want from her? If he thought he could use her as leverage, he was going to be disappointed. She didn’t have the faintest idea why Archer was keeping her alive. She’d been living on borrowed time and she knew it. He could have her taken out on a whim, and sooner or later he would, unless she finished him and got the hell out o
f Dodge. There was nothing Malcolm Gunnison could do that would make her position any more dangerous.
She pushed herself to a sitting position, making sure she kept her legs still and lifeless beneath the heavy sheets. She leaned back against her headboard, and the wood made a soft creak, so slight that most people wouldn’t notice, but Sophie froze. Archer would have only the best, most precise microphones—they would have picked up that thump, isolate it as coming from her room. That thump was an anomaly, and she knew better than to hope Archer would ignore it.
She switched on the light beside the bed, dragging her body over, and blinked against the blinding brightness. With a sigh of resignation she pulled herself into the wheelchair that had been left beside her bed and slowly rolled it toward the big bathroom. Archer might question why she hadn’t slept through the night like she usually did, but he could hardly argue with her plainly biological excuse. She pushed the door shut and leaned her head against it, taking deep breaths. This wasn’t what she wanted—drawing attention to herself would be the kind of mistake that could end up with her being dead and buried in a shallow grave somewhere on this island. She wondered exactly how many corpses littered the five square miles. Emilio, the man who had “accidentally” shot her, was one of them. So was Emilio’s girlfriend. Over the last two years people had come and gone, come and not gone. As long as Archer was convinced she still adored him, he’d be content to keep her around for amusement’s sake. If he found out she just didn’t give a damn, he’d have her killed without hesitation.
She stayed in the bathroom for as long as she could manage, pacing back and forth in complete silence as she considered her next-door neighbor. Exactly who was Malcolm Gunnison, and why had he risked discovery to sneak into her room in the middle of the night? Had Archer hired him? Maybe he was outsourcing her execution, but if so, why the delay? Killing someone was easy work—no one would know that better than Archer.
She rolled the chair back to the bed, maneuvering herself onto the mattress awkwardly. She’d originally thought the arrival of a guest on Isla Mordita would be a benefit—someone to take Archer’s mind off of her. Not that Archer usually wasted a second thought about her—if he didn’t have such a razor-sharp intellect, she’d think he’d forgotten all about her. But Archer didn’t forget anything. Malcolm Gunnison was probably here for something that had nothing to do with her, but then, why had he come into her room? Was it on Archer’s orders? And what about Archer—did he have a specific reason, or was it simply to fuck with her?
She couldn’t afford to panic. Her escape plan was simple—she knew the highly regimented schedule of the guards, knew who would be on duty and when. Marco took guard duty on weekends; during the week he was Joe’s second-in-command. Marco was the one who carried her places when Joe was busy, who brought her chair. Marco was the one who watched her when she swam in the warm, beautiful pool, her legs trailing uselessly as her arms sliced through the water. Marco was the one who told her about his love life and his mother and grandfather in Cuba, struggling to get by. Marco who was a stoner.
Archer didn’t give a damn about Marco’s affection for weed, and he even tolerated the garden where he cultivated it. He didn’t know that Marco liked more than weed, and that she’d been passing her Vicodin on to him, just enough to whet his appetite.
She really didn’t understand his affection for the stuff. She’d taken it during the first year and half after she’d been injured, and while it had put a dent in her pain, it never removed it completely—and as far as she could tell, it provided no pleasant feeling whatsoever. The most she felt was a little sleepy. But Marco seemed to love the stuff, as much as he could get. She was counting on his greediness—he went through the drugs like a gluttonous child. Once she handed over the stash hidden in her bed, he would devour them and be out of commission. Getting away from the house would be relatively easy. Using the boat Marco had boasted about might be more of a challenge.
He wasn’t supposed to have one, of course. It was nothing more than a glorified rowboat, one Marco used for his occasional attempts at fishing, which were really no more than an excuse to get stoned away from everyone else. She would have been surprised that Archer put up with him if Joe hadn’t divulged some of his past. If it weren’t for Marco’s impressive marksmanship, Archer wouldn’t be where he was today. She wouldn’t have thought Archer was one for loyalty, but apparently she was wrong, because Marco was given a huge amount of leeway.
She figured she had a fifty-fifty chance of getting away from there, odds that went way down if she finally finished her assignment and put a bullet in Archer’s brain. Her best chance would be to sneak off when no one was looking, when Archer was otherwise occupied, and get the hell out of there. If she wasted time killing him, she would probably be signing her own death warrant.
Hell, she’d probably drown in that stupid small boat anyway. If she managed to get off the island, she simply had to keep heading west to the closest solid land, Mexico, and then go from there.
As a plan it relied too much on luck and circumstances, and on her faulty judgment of character. She might think Marco was easily seduced by a handful of pills, but she’d been convinced Archer was a good man, not the monster the Committee had painted him. She’d been convinced they were in love. She’d been convinced he’d never hurt her.
She hunched down in the bed again, pulling the covers around her body and turning off the light, and she allowed herself a grimace of pain in the unseeing darkness. It still hurt when she twisted a certain way, and it probably always would. It made no difference. In fact, she almost welcomed the pain. It reminded her that she was alive, not in one of those shallow graves on the edge of the island. At least, not yet.
It was late when she finally woke, jerked into alertness by some dream she refused to let herself remember. Her heavy curtains had been pulled open, and a tray of congealed scrambled eggs and cold coffee sat on the table beside her bed. Rachel must have come and gone, not bothering to wake her. Making a face, she pulled herself into a sitting position, glancing out at the tropical sunshine. It was after eleven—she usually woke up at six and then waited hours for Rachel to make her appearance. She cursed silently. Another change from routine that Archer would notice. If she was going to get out of here, then she had to make sure nothing else out of the ordinary drew his attention.
She heard the soft knock at her door, and she called out, “Come in,” before she could think twice. Rachel never knocked—she just barged in.
The man calling himself Malcolm Gunnison stood in the doorway, his face the same blank expression she was getting used to. He’d dumped his bespoke suit, trading it in for jeans and a long-sleeved shirt rolled up at the elbows. He really did have endless legs, she thought, momentarily distracted. Or maybe it was simply that he wasn’t as top heavy as the men she was used to on the island. Everyone there had pumped iron to the max, so at times she felt like she was living in a land of thick-muscled mutants. Even she had done some weights, supposedly to enable her to haul her inert body around. In truth, she simply wanted all the strength she could get, and an excuse for her impressive guns.
Which meant that she, or any man on the island, could probably flatten the elegant Mr. Gunnison. Good to know.
She looked at him warily. “Yes?”
He didn’t smile—she wondered if he was capable of it. “Your husband would like you to join us for lunch,” he said, and the English accent slid down her spine.
She mentally shook it off. “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
He glanced at her untouched tray. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Joe will come fetch you in half an hour.”
Fetch? Did people really say fetch? It would be a waste of time to argue, to plead a sleepless night—Archer always got his way, sometimes by charm, sometimes by force. She managed to put a pleased smile on her face. She had no idea who this man was, whether he was the obscurely titled “consultant” or something else entirely, but he was here at Archer’
s behest, which meant he was the enemy. “I’ll be ready,” she said, using her arms to pull herself to the side of the bed.
He stepped inside her door, into her room, an act that would have shocked her if he hadn’t already been prowling around. “Do you need some help getting dressed?”
There were limits to how pleasant she could be. “From you? I don’t think so,” she said, and then immediately regretted it. Most people wouldn’t have seen that interested light flash in his clear green eyes, so fast did it come and go, but she wasn’t most people. That had been some kind of test, and she’d failed it. Or passed it, depending what outcome he’d been hoping for. He’d paid very little outward attention to her the night before, apart from his random courtesies, but now he was directing his focus at her, and she’d been a fool not to be more careful. She quickly moved to make up lost ground. “But if you could send Rachel or Amy up I’d be very grateful.” She gave him the winsome smile she’d been practicing, the one that would melt Archer’s most ruthless employees.
Malcolm didn’t even blink. “Certainly,” he said politely, moving back into the hallway. A moment later she could hear his footsteps on the stairs, could hear them quite clearly because he’d left her door open, the son of a bitch. But why?
Had Archer begun to suspect her? Had he really brought Malcolm to the island to unmask her? That would explain everything, including the man’s late-night wanderings. When it came right down to it, nobody set foot on Isla Mordita without Archer knowing exactly who and what they were. Malcolm would be no threat to Archer, and therefore no help to her. She was going to have to watch herself for the next few days.
That is, when she wasn’t watching Malcolm Gunnison.
Malcolm joined Archer MacDonald on the shady terrace that ran along one side of the house. The water in the swimming pool was sparkling in the sunlight, and the one called Rachel was tanning herself, topless, on the side. She really did have the most impressive pair of man-made tits, Malcolm noticed, unmoved. He had never been fond of plastic in bed.
