by Anne Stuart
“I told you last night, they don’t care what I do with you. You’re no longer a liability—enough time has passed, and it appears that Archer didn’t get anything useful about the Committee structure from you.”
“Not for want of trying,” she said bitterly. “He may have never admitted knowing about me, but he made it clear he was wanting information. Information I wouldn’t give no matter what he did to me.”
She felt a sudden stillness in the room, but when she glanced across at him he was leaning back against the wall, looking up through the damaged roof to the overcast sky. Just as well—she didn’t want to think about that time. Archer was undeniably brilliant and inventive, and when he put those qualities into finding ways to deliver pain, it was almost unbearable. But she’d borne it anyway. She’d gotten to the point where she could withstand anything.
Including the man who had lowered his head and was watching her again through the shifting light in the boathouse. “So why are we here?” she said.
“I have orders to have rampant sex with you.”
For a moment she thought she misunderstood him. “Orders?”
“Archer informs me that you’re suicidal and those impressive bruises are the result of self-harm.”
“That fuckhead,” she muttered, incensed.
“And furthermore he says that you need distraction and, presumably, physical release to come out of your desperate decline. If I don’t do it, then it’ll be up to someone else.”
“Good. He can import stud service.”
“If I don’t do it, then he’s hinted he’ll find someone else to sell his fucking Pixiedust to.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous. Why would it matter to him who I end up screwing, as long as he can humiliate me into doing it? And why would he let it interfere with his business?”
“He believes you’re attracted to me. And he’s insisting because he likes power and he wants to make me follow orders so he can demonstrate he has the upper hand. He also seems obsessed with hurting you.” He leaned his head back, at ease. “And since I’m not about to risk my mission over something we both want, I figured we could come down here and do the deed. There are too many cameras on this island—I’m not in the mood for witnesses.”
She felt a tightness curl low in her stomach and her skin begin to tingle. “Something we both want? What planet are you from? I don’t want you anywhere near me.”
“That’s too bad, because I’m going to be inside you,” Mal said lazily, watching her out of those deceptive green eyes.
The tingle became electric on her warm skin. “It’ll be a cold day in hell. You go away and I’ll take care of Archer myself.”
He shook his head, and his relaxed posture was even more of an affront to her. “Not going to happen.”
“Well, then he’ll just have to take your word for it that you debauched me.”
“Debauched?” he echoed with a laugh. How could he laugh at a time like this, she thought. But then, Committee operatives were trained to do whatever they had to do to complete the mission, including having sex when required, regardless of gender. This was simply part of the job to Malcolm, and she wanted to hurt him, badly, though she didn’t want to examine her reasons too closely. “What kind of romance novels have you been reading?”
“War and Peace,” she said. “Sorry, your sacrifice is unnecessary. We’ll just tell him we did it.”
“He’s not that gullible,” Mal said.
“Convince him,” she snapped.
He shook his head. “Never tell a lie when the truth will do—you must have learned that. Lying only complicates matters. Sorry, sweetheart. We don’t have a choice.”
Her breath hitched in her throat, then started again. She could feel her heart hammering—part of her training had involved controlling her heart rate, controlling all outward sign of panic, but too long had passed. Her heart was pounding so loudly he could probably hear it.
He looked far too comfortable, his long legs stretched out in front of him, seemingly at ease. But he wasn’t—he was alert, like a snake ready to strike. “No,” she said flatly. “Just lie a little harder.”
“Well, I could,” he said. “But I don’t want to. I want you.”
The words, casually spoken, were a shock. He rose to his feet, effortlessly, and she stared up at him, knowing he was coming for her. She was by the door—she could run, but there were too many security cameras. She could scream, but it wouldn’t do any good—no one was around. She didn’t move, like a rabbit caught in a snare, but she wasn’t going to be a victim ever again.
“You touch me and I’ll break your hand,” she said steadily.
“You can try.” His voice was calm, pleasant, as he came up to her. Huddled against the wall was no fighting position, and she pushed herself up so that she stood facing him, only a foot of space separating them. Too close. Too far. He reached out his hand for her, and she slapped him across the face as hard as she could, so hard that it jolted all the way up her arm. He didn’t react.
“You have too many tells,” he said in a conversational voice. He was wearing a gray button-down shirt, and he pulled it from his jeans, unbuttoning it while his eyes bore into hers. Deep, hypnotic eyes, and she wondered if she could fight him. Her whole body felt alive, tingling with sensation, and he hadn’t even touched her. “I can see what you’re going to do before you even realize it.”
“Touch me and I’ll kill you.”
“You and what army?” Before she knew what was happening, he’d crossed that last bit of space, slid his arm around her back, and yanked her against his hard body. “Don’t be a hypocrite. We both want it, and it helps the mission. Man up, Jordan.”
It was a shock, hearing her maiden name for the first time in years. She could feel him, his hard cock unmistakable beneath his jeans, pressing against her stomach. “I don’t think that’s exactly what you’re expecting me to do.” He was right, damn him. It was taking everything she had to keep her body stiff against his, when she wanted to sink into his warmth. “We don’t have to do this.”
A slow smile crossed his face and he shook his head, his green eyes hot and slumberous. “Maybe not, but we want to.” He put his other hand behind her neck, pulling her head up for his mouth, and she didn’t move, letting him kiss her, letting the feeling flood through her body, heat and need, so long denied her. He was right. She’d wanted this from the moment she first saw him, whether she wanted to admit it or not, and his tongue in her mouth was the first claim—her response, the first acceptance.
His body pressed hers against the wall, and she felt him reach between them, unfastening his jeans, and she panicked for a moment, lashing out at him. He caught her wrists, holding them tightly together, and began to pull up her skirt. She wanted to shove him away, she wanted . . . she wanted . . .
She yanked her arms free and put them around his neck, slamming her mouth against his. She grabbed his shirt, trying to pull it away from him, wanting his skin against hers, and he’d managed to pull the top of her dress down, exposing her breasts. A moment later he’d hoisted her up in his strong, strong arms, and her legs wrapped around his narrow hips, and she was suddenly blind with hunger.
He shoved into her, and she gasped, shocked at the unexpected size of him, the thick cock deep inside her, so good . . . so good . . . and she tightened her arms and legs around him as spasms of pleasure washed over her. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, she just wanted to feel. She needed this to last forever, and she rode him, his hands on her hips, sliding her up and down on his cock. She threw her head back, wanting to scream, and he sank his head against her neck, his teeth against her shoulder, the sting of his bite sending her over the edge.
She had always been noisy during sex. But she came in powerful, urgent silence now, her entire body trembling, shaking, falling apart, as he thrust into her, over and over again, his hips sinuous, pinning her against the wall, until it was too much, and she tried to say
something, but all she could do was push tighter against him, taking more, needing more.
Another wave hit her, and this time she did cry out, a wordless sound of rich pleasure, and he pulled away from the wall, turning around, still holding her as he moved, in and out, his thickness a wicked torment, harder, deeper, until he was suddenly rigid in her arms, in her body, his breath rasping as he poured himself into her, punctuated by each jerk of his hips, and she let go, let go of everything, drowning in sensation, in him, in Mal.
She lost all sense of time. Slowly, slowly, his arms loosened around her. Her heart was slamming against her chest, his own heart rate barely elevated, and when he pulled free from her, she wanted to cry out in anguish at the loss. There was no way that her legs could support her, and she dropped to the rough flooring at his feet, curling in on herself. She could feel the wetness of his semen between her legs. He hadn’t used a condom—of course he hadn’t.
She heard the creak of the wood, and looked up to see he’d collapsed against the wall, his eyes closed, his elegant face a sheen of sweat. There was no way she could read his expression. She drew her knees up and buried her wet face against them, unable to look at him. Unable to look at him and not want him again.
She had no idea how long the silence lasted. How long it took her heartbeat to return to normal, for his ragged breath to calm. She just needed to be alone. “Go away,” she said in a harsh whisper, her arms tight around her up-drawn knees, her face buried.
She didn’t expect any mercy, any tenderness from him. She felt his hands on her arms, pulling them away, and she had no choice but to look up into his impassive face. At least there was no triumph in his green eyes. “You ready to go back to the house?” he asked in a perfectly calm voice.
She jerked her head up completely then, staring at him. He’d already fastened his jeans, though his shirt was still open, exposing his strong chest, and she could see his pulse at his throat. Clearly he was not as unmoved has he’d have her believe.
Her dress was down to her waist, still exposing her breasts, and she quickly yanked it up, covering herself, then used her arm to wipe the wetness away from her eyes. There could be no better way to punish her for her stupid treachery than making her want, need, ache for a man who had no use for her.
“I’m going to kill Archer,” she said in a low voice, “and then I’m going to kill you.”
His face creased in a faint smile. “Go ahead and try.”
She shook her head, trying to dispel him from her mind, just as she needed to wash him from her body. She wanted to hate him, to blame him, but he’d been nothing but truthful. They’d both wanted it. She just wasn’t going to let it happen again. “Take me back,” she said. “I need a shower.” Her voice was filled with honest disgust. Not with him. With herself. With her stupid, mindless desperation, with her orgasms, with her need to be back in his arms, her need for some small sign of tenderness, of sweetness.
Instead, he had the same enigmatic expression he usually wore. “All right,” he said, pushing away from the wall. “But no shower until Archer comes back. We didn’t go through this to have all evidence washed away.”
Go through this? Like it was some form of torture? As it should have been for her? But he knew far too well it hadn’t been torture for either of them—it had been a pleasure so exquisite that she wanted any witness, including both of them, dead.
He rose, towering over her, and she knew she should scramble to her feet, to lessen her feeling of weakness, but she still wasn’t sure her legs would hold her. She was still trembling, so slightly he wouldn’t see it, and her legs felt like rubber bands. It had been so long since she’d had sex with anyone that she couldn’t remember what it had been like. Couldn’t remember it ever feeling this powerful.
She looked up, way up, past his endless legs to his unreadable face. “I hate you,” she said.
“You sound like a child,” he said coolly.
“You fuck any children lately?”
“You’ve got a nasty tongue on you, don’t you, sweetheart?” he said.
“Don’t call me that!” She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take.
“What would you prefer? Baby? That’s what Archer calls you.”
She didn’t say another word. It had happened, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. She couldn’t even blame him—it had only taken his strong hands on her and she’d gone willingly, eagerly.
She couldn’t make herself move. He reached down and pulled her up, holding her for a moment, as if he guessed she wasn’t too steady yet. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He used that hated term again, but it sounded oddly tender. “If you end up getting out of here, you can report me to the Committee for rape and see if it gets you anywhere.”
“You didn’t rape me and you know it,” she said in a low voice.
“Depends on how you define rape,” he said. “You said no, I said yes, then your body said yes. I don’t think it’ll make it to the Supreme Court, but it’s an interesting distinction.”
“You are such a fucking bastard,” she said, and the last of her tremors vanished, leaving her suffused with anger, her misery dissolving. Had he done it on purpose? Of course not—he didn’t give a damn how she felt.
“I never told you I was anything else.” He picked her up, holding her high against him, and kicked open the boathouse door. In another moment they were heading back up the path.
She could still feel him inside her. Crying would be a waste of time, and besides, what was she crying for? Semantics aside, she had taken him into her body willingly, released him reluctantly. She had kissed him, and her mouth felt swollen and tender. She had had a rough reminder that she was still human, still female, prey to the usual biological hunger and needs most humans were. There was nothing to be ashamed about. It was part of the job, the job that she’d fucked up, and no one was hurt in the aftermath.
He was right—she needed to man up. She said nothing when they reached the house, Mal shoving open the kitchen door. Sophie had no choice but to sit in her chair when he placed her there, the dampness between her legs, until Mal accomplished whatever he’d set out to accomplish. Sooner or later she’d be alone, able to work through what had happened, able to rationalize and put it behind her. Right then she simply felt drained and empty.
Elena came in from the dining room, a laundry basket under her arm, and she greeted the two of them with a smile. “Did you have a good time, señora Sophie?”
A good time doing what? Sophie thought in a sudden panic. Did everyone know what she and Mal had been doing?
“We had a very nice walk,” Mal said lightly. “Mrs. MacDonald showed me places on the island I hadn’t realized existed.”
Elena’s face creased in a grin. “She knows this island very well. Back when . . . before . . . she hiked all over it. I don’t think there was one place she didn’t investigate.”
“Really?” Mal said. “Then we’ll definitely have to do this again, won’t we, Sophie?” He leaned closer to her, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin. A final stray shiver danced across her skin.
She wanted to tell him to go to hell. She wanted to say, “I don’t think so,” in her iciest tones, but they had an audience, so she simply smiled with as much sincerity as she could manage. “You’d probably have a better time with Archer,” she murmured, glancing up at him.
She sucked in her breath, because there was heat and laughter in his eyes as he looked down at her. “But he’s not as pretty,” he said, sounding perfectly sincere, as he picked up a strand of her hair and stroked it. The sight of his long, gorgeous fingers rubbing against the silken strands made her stomach clench once again.
“Can I get you both some lunch?” Elena asked, setting down her basket.
I want to press my head against his hand like a kitten looking for comfort, Sophie thought in disgust, about to shake her head, when she heard Mal’s voice above her. “Sandwiches and coffee on the terrace wou
ld be very nice, Elena.”
Elena gave them both a dazzling smile. “It will take only a moment.”
Sophie waited until they were in the darkened kitchen. “I’m not hungry,” she said in a small voice.
“I am.” The house was cool and dark, with the curtains closed against the bright tropical sun. “And you don’t eat enough.”
That was enough to make her turn to stare at him. “I’m perfectly healthy.”
“You are. But you’re too thin.”
Her laugh was brittle. “You certainly know the right words to a woman’s heart.”
He pushed her out into the bright sunshine again, on the veranda above the pool, the water blue and beautiful in the afternoon sun. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” he said as he placed her at the table, setting the brakes. “I know what to say to a woman to make her my slave for life.”
The thought was so absurd she was almost speechless. Almost. “You must be out of your mind.”
He shrugged, stretching out in the chair beside her. “Sanity is hardly the hallmark of a professional killer.”
The thought startled her. I just fucked a murderer, she thought. She’d been so caught up in trying to blot it out that she’d forgotten who and what he was. Forgotten that he was just as likely to kill her as she was to kill him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, making herself sound casual. “How long have you been getting away with it?”
“How long have I been a killer for the Committee? Eight years.”
She stared at him. He’d said it casually, as if it were no big deal, but she thought she could see a bleakness to his eyes. “You were there when I was?” For some reason she had simply assumed he’d come in later.
“I was. I wasn’t stationed in England at the time, but I heard all about you. Everyone did.”
The familiar guilt swept over her, but she resolutely pushed it away. “That must have been entertaining for you . . .” Her voice trailed off as Elena came out on the veranda, a large tray in her capable hands. Sophie could smell the coffee, and she decided she might survive this day after all.
