by Anne Stuart
Fortunately that didn’t seem to be what Archer wanted from him. “Hey, Mal,” he said in a stage whisper, leaning over him. Would Sophie be able to hear him? What would she think? She’d probably just distrust him all the more, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
He opened his eyes, blinking as if roused from a deep sleep, and pushed himself up in the bed. “What’s up?” he said sleepily.
“Shhh. We don’t want to wake Sophie up. I’ve decided it’s time to get out of Dodge.”
“Say what?” Mal said in a slow voice, his mind working feverishly.
“I think we need to pay a little visit to my laboratories. There’s a late-season storm brewing, and if we hesitate, we’ll be stuck here. If you’re worried about Sophie, don’t. This place is perfectly safe in the worst of storms, and Sophie’s fine on her own. I go off all the time,” Archer assured him. “There’ll be enough people left behind to look after her, and she enjoys the time alone. You want to get your business dealt with, don’t you?”
Mal said nothing, considering things. He wasn’t in the mood to abandon Sophie, though as long as Archer was with him she was probably better off. The question was, why was Archer suddenly determined to leave the island? Who was in the most danger, him or Sophie? Maybe both of them. Archer had thrown them together, but he clearly hadn’t liked the results. He’d be even more pissed by what they’d done tonight. Mal didn’t think there was any way Archer could have seen or heard anything, but it wasn’t wise to underestimate someone like Archer MacDonald.
“I would have thought this whole business deal would be over and done with by now anyway,” Mal growled, deciding slightly sullen would work well.
“Don’t say you haven’t enjoyed yourself, Mal, old man,” Archer chided him. “And I’m hoping once we find out what the holdup is with Chekowsky, you might come back. You seem to have enjoyed my wife yesterday, which I admit surprises me. She was never that good in bed.”
Mal refused to rise to the provocation. He shrugged. “Maybe she needed someone else to inspire her.”
Archer’s conspiratorial grin froze for a moment. “She was in love with me.”
Past tense, Mal thought. “I’m sure she still is,” he said, sounding bored. “If we find your man and conclude the deal, why would I bother to come back?” He damned well had every intention of coming back, but it wouldn’t be wise to seem too amenable.
Archer made a face. “Haven’t I been a good host? I’ve offered you anything you could want, including exclusive rights to my own wife. Consider it a vacation.”
Why the hell would Archer want him back? More of his game playing? Or maybe he’d decided he really didn’t like bartering his wife after all. If Archer was planning to kill him, then it wouldn’t make sense for them to go away, any more than it would for him to return. Archer could get one of his men to put a gun to Mal’s head no matter where they were. “I don’t take vacations.” His voice was neutral.
“Well, you should,” Archer said cheerfully. “Life’s too short not to be enjoyed, and I expect you work very hard for the no doubt impressive amounts of money you get paid.”
Malcolm said nothing, just watched him.
“Besides, just because we’re checking in on Chekowsky doesn’t mean he’ll be ready to part with his project. He’s a perfectionist and a pain in my ass, but in the end I find it better not to rush him. If there’s a time limit on your offer, then perhaps we ought to just forget about it—as you can imagine, I have a great many other people interested in Pixiedust . . .”
So it’s a game of bluff, is it? Malcolm thought, trying not to react to Archer’s obnoxious name for the deadly poison. He had no doubt at all that there were any number of offers on the table, nor did he think it likely that Archer would sell such a powerful weapon to only one plutocrat or dictator. Archer would do his best to sell it to everyone he could, all the time swearing it was exclusive.
“There’s no time limit,” Mal said. “I don’t have anywhere else I need to be right now.” He paused. “And I enjoyed fucking your wife.”
Archer beamed at him, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He had something planned, though Mal couldn’t begin to know what. He only knew that it would be extremely unpleasant and most likely involve Sophie as well. At that point there was nothing Mal could do but go along with things and watch very closely.
“Good enough!” Archer said. “The boat should be ready by now. Grab a few things and we’ll go.”
He had to see Sophie before they left. “It’ll take me a few minutes . . .”
“No, it won’t. Rachel’s here to take care of things—all we need to do is head down and get settled and the others will follow. Nothing to worry about,” Archer assured him.
Mal looked Archer squarely in his guileless eyes. He didn’t want to go, which was crazy. He needed to stick to Archer MacDonald, and leaving Sophie behind was probably the best thing he could do for her. So why the hell was he so reluctant? Why was he determined to make his way back here, even if Archer and his fucking Pixiedust were terminated?
There was no way he could justify it. Even if he finished Archer and managed to either turn or kill the scientist, then he needed to get back to New Orleans and make his report. Sophie had made her own bed—she’d probably already had a plan to get off the island on her own. If he and Archer were gone, she’d have an easier time of it, and he wouldn’t have to deal with her getting in his way while he tried to take care of business. She would have fucked everything if he hadn’t tampered with the Beretta. Once they were off the island, he probably wouldn’t have to see her again.
Wouldn’t have to worry about her either, though there was no earthly reason why he should. Peter Madsen or Matthew Ryder in the New Orleans branch would want to make sure the island was cleared and secure, and they would see to getting Sophie off there if she hadn’t already found her own way.
It had nothing to do with him. She was a distraction, a dangerous one. In the end, she wasn’t any of his business, and the brutal truth was that he was a killer, not a rescuer. He couldn’t afford to feel anything for anybody, and Sophie was acceptable collateral damage, given her fuck-up three years ago. He really didn’t give a shit, he told himself, ignoring the faint queasiness in his stomach.
He gave Archer his cynical half smile. “I wasn’t worried,” he said, pushing back the covers and climbing out of bed. He always slept naked, but he was already used to Malcolm’s interested gaze, and he quickly pulled on his clothes, ignoring him. “What are we waiting for?”
Archer grinned widely. “Excellent!” he said, slinging his free arm around Mal’s shoulders. They were about the same height, six foot two, but Archer was bulkier, seemingly stronger, and for a moment Mal considered twisting around, wrapping his own arm around Archer and snapping his neck. Stupid idea—there were too many people in the house who’d put a bullet in him before he heard more than the satisfying crunch.
Malcolm managed a cool smile. “Whatever,” he said, and allowed Archer to pull him out toward the stairs, bypassing Sophie’s door. She was probably listening to every word, doing a little dance of excitement at getting rid of both of them. She was probably ready to celebrate never seeing him again, ready to forget all about the time in the boathouse, the time on the balcony.
She could think whatever she wanted. Right now he had to get down to business, get the mission finished, and then he could decide what he wanted to do with her.
For now he had to stick to business.
Chapter Seventeen
Sophie woke up with the feeling that something was desperately wrong. It was six, too early, and she lay still, trying to remember why everything felt so messed up. Life had been a shitstorm for three years—why would today be any more complicated? And then she remembered.
She sat up, checking out her room in the murky light. The door to the terrace was closed, blocking out the sunshine, and the air-conditioning was on high, chilling her skin. She felt a strange combinat
ion of exhilaration and exhaustion, of fury and something that was dangerously close to happiness. She knew her body still bore the marks of Mal’s hands on her, despite all her ruthless scrubbing. She could still feel him inside her—why did that sensation last, taunting her?
She lay back down again, listening carefully for sounds from the room next to her. She couldn’t hear a thing, but then, she wouldn’t. Mal knew how to be silent—he was the epitome of the perfect Committee agent. Ruthless, cold-blooded, impossible to catch. He had no emotions, no weaknesses as far as she could tell—except, perhaps, for lust. There was no other reason last night would have happened, at least the part he had initiated. Mostly he’d been intent on getting in her way while he pursued his own agenda. Maybe last night had simply been part of a plan to keep her off balance and out of his business.
She could have died last night because of that stupid gun, and he hadn’t cared. He’d rescued her, but it probably had more to do with keeping his cover than any concern for her. He was a merciless, heartless bastard.
And yet . . . he’d shoved her behind him when he thought Archer was going to find them, and he’d carried her into his room, not hers, held her when he should have set her down and sent her on her way.
Most of the operatives she’d known would have simply gotten rid of her by now. The Committee had been a tight ship when she’d gone through her abbreviated training, and she’d learned enough to know that no one risked a mission over collateral damage. If someone or something posed any threat to the successful completion of your job, you got rid of it. It was that simple, that necessary, and that brutal.
The room looked just as she had left it. The door to the balcony was still locked, her wheelchair by the side of her bed. It seemed as if it were about a foot farther away from her than usual, but she could chalk that up to the semi-dazed state she’d been in, awash in sensation and guilt and fury, and a powerful, physical satisfaction, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
Rachel would appear by eight, bringing fresh fruit and some repulsive oatmeal that she conscientiously ate every morning. Pancakes, she promised herself. With real Vermont maple syrup. Assuming they had the real thing in Mexico or Louisiana or wherever she ended up once she got off this island. And bacon. She could smell it cooking sometimes, wafting up from the kitchens, but none had ever appeared on her breakfast tray. Archer had never particularly liked bacon—that should have tipped her off to what a bastard he really was. He probably had Elena cook bacon just to torment her.
Maybe she’d cook bacon sometime for Mal. Maybe she could sneak into his room . . . no! She closed her eyes in disgust. She’d truly lost her mind. She needed to get the hell out of here. If she went back into his room, it wouldn’t be bacon she was looking for, and it would have nothing to do with what she’d end up doing again. Unless she ate bacon off his hard, flat stomach and . . .
She flopped back down on the bed, covering her flushed face with a pillow. Maybe she could just smother herself—it would be a kinder, gentler death. She even allowed herself a quiet groan, muffled by the pillow. If the microphones picked it up, Archer could make of it what he wanted. She was too tired, too screwed up, to worry about it.
When she woke again it was past eleven, and even in the cold room she was sweating. She knew why, but she refused to think about it. Erotic dreams were not her responsibility, and there was nothing she could do about them but stay awake, and that would wreak havoc on her training. His mouth hadn’t tasted of bacon. It had tasted of sin, of darkness, of pure delight.
Something she was never going to taste again. She shoved her hair back, then levered herself into the wheelchair, ignoring the odd shakiness that her too-vivid memories had left her with. Her skin prickled, and she knew she was flushed.
She needed a cold shower. Picking up the telephone, she was shocked to hear nothing but silence. Someone had turned off the on-island phone network. It wasn’t the electricity—the air conditioner was still humming away. She rolled herself over to the door and opened it, coming out onto the upper hallway overlooking the main floor.
“Hello?” she called. “Elena? Joe?”
There was no answer. She could see outside now, through the tall windows of the main floor, and it was unnaturally dark, stormy, wind lashing at the trees. Maybe the weather had taken out the phone system—the infrastructure on Isla Mordita was the best money could buy, but under such primitive, private circumstances, money couldn’t buy much.
She glanced back at Malcolm’s room. The door was open, and he had to be gone as well—otherwise he’d probably be out there, taunting her. At least he wouldn’t have any idea what she’d been thinking about—small blessing.
There was no way she was going to find out what was going on in the suddenly silent house without getting her body downstairs, and there was only one way to do it.
She’d discovered a great trick early on—she’d picture herself a Disneyfied mermaid, her legs encased in an immovable tail whenever she had to do things that might be observed. Locking the wheelchair, she carefully picked up one foot and then another before flipping up the footrests, then sliding out of the thing and onto the floor. Chances were Archer was somewhere watching this whole production, delighting in her awkwardness. He probably had Malcolm with him, and when she got to the bottom of the wide, winding stairs he’d appear, applauding.
There was always the possibility Archer had abandoned her. He’d done it before, always without warning, but people had been left behind. She had the curious feeling that the island was completely deserted, but she knew how unlikely that was. After all, she was Archer’s toy, like a catnip mouse for him to bat around and then ignore when he wasn’t interested. Archer never gave up anything willingly, and he certainly was never going to let her go. Sooner or later he planned to kill her, and even though a few long years had passed, nothing had softened him, nothing had changed him. He was still the sadistic megalomaniac he’d always been, back when she’d been too stupid to recognize it.
She never did anything that would give away her condition except in total darkness, and despite the strong winds and cloudy skies it was still bright enough for Archer’s myriad cameras to catch her in the act. Scooting on her butt, she slid down to the first step, dragging her legs with her as she leaned back against the balustrade.
By the time she reached the ground floor she was covered with sweat. And then she remembered she’d left the fucking wheelchair at the top of the landing. Shit! She should have pushed it down the stairs and hoped for the best. The damned thing was made of titanium, and it probably would have been fine. Now she was stuck at the bottom with no way to get around but dragging her virtual mermaid’s tail with her.
She tried calling out. She tried screaming. No one answered, though the sound of the wind through the trees probably drowned out her voice. She heard a sudden great crack of thunder, so loud that it shook the house, and she screamed like a baby, immediately ashamed of herself, as the lights flickered and went off.
She sat back against the bottom stair, taking a deep breath. It was November—the hurricane season should be just about over. They’d only been hit once, when she and Archer had been newly married, and everyone had left the island for safety, coming back to find almost the entire place flooded except for the old sugar mill at the top of the hill.
Was that it? Had there been hurricane warnings and Archer had left her here alone to drown? If so, it was a piss-poor method of murder, she thought, irritated. The water had covered the island, all right, but it hadn’t reached the second floor of the old house. It would take a category 5 to do that, and those were few and far between, and certainly not at the tail end of the season—that or a tsunami.
Of course, with this brewing storm, now was the perfect time to abandon her. No one with any sense would set out in a boat until this thing passed—she didn’t need guards to keep her here. She was well and truly trapped.
With a sigh she leaned forward, dragging herself toward the kitc
hen. The servants’ sleeping quarters were on that side of the house, as well as Archer’s private little cadre of bodyguards. If there was anyone left on the island, they’d be back there.
I never would have made it as an actress, she thought as she reached the end of the massive dining room. No doubt she would have been very good—she could lie with the best of them—but the physical demands were a pain in the butt. Once she got off this island, she never intended to sit down again.
Once I get off this island, once I get off this island. As a mantra it wasn’t as calming as it usually was. The food, the sex, the myriad wonders a free life presented her—all were seeming more and more distant. Maybe, given her track record, she should just give up sex entirely. She seemed to have very bad taste in men, if she’d been besotted with one psychopath and was currently tormented by sexual longings for a ruthless operative.
Of course, that was ignoring the fact that she’d intended to be the same kind of operative, though she’d had delusions of helping the world, not just getting the job done. And she wasn’t lusting after Malcolm. So they’d had sex, twice. The first time he’d initiated it, the second time she’d taken back the power and gone down on him. She wanted to do it again, when it was something she’d always done out of duty, never desire. She was vulnerable, no matter how hard she tried not to be, and it was no surprise she was feeling totally fucked, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
Simple hormones, long denied, that’s what it was, she decided, yanking her body over the threshold into the large kitchen. It was just her body’s way of proving that she was still alive.
She had to stop thinking about it! He was nowhere around, at least for now, and she needed to concentrate on finding out exactly what was going on.
The kitchen was dark, and she heard the rain start, hard, tiny pellets lashing against the windows. She called out again, to nothingness, the only response the rumble in her empty stomach. The house was empty, the power was off, which would render the cameras and listening devices useless, and she’d dragged herself across this honking big house like something out of Wyeth painting.
