by Anne Stuart
She turned in his arms, when he’d expected, half-hoped she’d leap out of the bed. She slid her hands up his chest, putting her arms around his neck. There were the salt tracks of dried tears mixing with the faint freckles on her cheeks, but she looked at him, and smiled. It was small, soft, tentative, and he felt something crack inside him.
He brought his head down and kissed her, slow, nibbling kisses, the seduction she’d complained about before. He did nothing with his hands, simply used his mouth, kissing her eyelids, the sides of her mouth, the freckle-splashed cheekbones, her lips—God, her lips—and she was growing hot, restless beneath him. He kissed the side of her neck, her earlobe, and then he used his teeth on that soft flesh. Her shiver of reaction made him even harder. He was losing his mind, and he couldn’t afford to, not when he had so many things left to do.
He pushed her onto her back, planning to shove inside her, take her quickly and get it over with, but as he moved above her he stopped, looking down into her eyes. And then she said the worst thing she could possibly say.
“I love you.”
He froze.
She looked almost as horrified as he was at her words, and she quickly scrambled to explain. “I mean, I don’t really. Of course not, you’re a cold-blooded bastard. It’s just that I’ve been alone so long, and there’s no denying you’re really, really, really good in bed, and it’s no wonder that I’ve gotten a little confused. As soon as I get out of here and away from you, I’ll come to my senses and you don’t need to worry, but in the meantime”—she was running out of breath—“I love you.”
“Oh, Christ,” he muttered weakly. He didn’t need this. “I’m supposed to take Archer’s place as your lord and protector? Let me tell you one thing, sweetheart. Between him and me there isn’t much difference. I may work for the good guys, he’s one of the bad ones, but we’re both just as cold-blooded and ruthless.”
“I know.”
“So you get off on being treated like shit?” he said, unaccountably disappointed in her. “They should have figured that out before they even brought you into the program.”
“I don’t. Archer was a mistake, made when I was a vulnerable girl.”
“And what am I—the best thing since sliced toast?” he shot back. Why am I still hard? he thought. Those three words were better than saltpeter at deflating a libido, yet he was still going strong. “I’m not better than your husband. Don’t look at me like some starry-eyed twit—I’m a rat bastard.”
The soft smile that curved her mouth drove him crazy with the need to wipe it off her face, kiss it off her face. “I know you are,” she said, agreeing far too readily. “I have lousy taste in men—at least we agree on that one. Don’t worry—I’ll get over it.”
“I’m not going to worry about it,” he said in a rough voice, his insides roiling. “I don’t give a shit.”
He expected her to shrink back, pull away from him, hell, burst into the tears that had startled him a short while ago. She didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who cried, but then, he’d never pegged her as the kind of idiot to fall in love with a man like him. She didn’t even blink at his harsh words.
He started to pull away from her. “I’ve got things to do,” he said.
She slid her hand down his chest, lower, to wrap around his rigid dick, and it took everything he had to still a moan of sheer animal pleasure. “I know,” she said, sliding her hand down with just the perfect pressure.
He felt a slow-burning rage fill him. She’d screwed up everything. She was supposed to be an easy shag, deserving anything he tossed her way, and she was forcing herself into his life, into his thoughts, into his heart . . . Screw that, he didn’t have a heart. Hadn’t since he’d started to work for the Committee.
He reached down, caught her hand, and pulled it away from him, shoving her onto her back. He was going to leave her there, wet and wanting, he was going to turn his back on her and walk away . . .
The hell he was. He shoved her legs apart, moving between them, and thrust his cock into her so hard she cried out, not in pain but in fierce satisfaction. She was everything he wanted—she was nothing but trouble. He reached up and pulled her hands from his shoulders, slamming them into the mattress and holding them there as he surged into her, deeper and deeper. He was rough, but she met him, thrust for thrust, moving with him, taking him deep inside, the walls of her sex milking him as the first orgasm hit her, and then the second, and then she was lost in one endless convulsion as he shoved into her, over and over and over again, their slick bodies sliding against each other, her teeth on his neck, biting down hard, and then he was coming, losing it all inside her, caught in the tight grasp of her cunt.
He was still hard when he pulled out of her, rolled out of bed, and headed for the bathroom, and he knew if she joined him in the shower, he’d take her again. He couldn’t be around her and not want her, no matter what she said or did. He had to get rid of her, now, before any more damage was done.
The water was cold, of course. He’d forgotten about the power, but the shower seemed to work anyway, and he figured it must be some kind of gravity-fed system. He didn’t mind the cold anymore—he wanted to be icy, frigid, distant. He rubbed soap over his body, trying to ignore his prick, and rinsed clean, waiting for Sophie, knowing she’d follow him, knowing she couldn’t resist any more than he could.
But the door never opened. He turned off the water, listening, but there was no sound from the room beyond. Grabbing a towel, he dried off, then wrapped it around his waist. Not that he was trying to preserve Sophie’s modesty, but he was better off without his erection waving in the wind.
The bed was empty. The door to the balcony was open, and he realized the rain had stopped. It looked like late afternoon, a reasonable-enough guess, and he wondered where the hell Sophie had run to. Was she sulking in her room? He should go check on her . . . no, he should not. He needed to go downstairs and try to get word to the Committee that he needed a pickup. He was going to have to start all over again with Chekowsky, and time was of the essence. At least Archer was gone—no matter how bad Chekowsky was, he couldn’t be as irritating as Archer’s cheerful malice.
He dressed quickly, not bothering with the formal wear that was such a part of Malcolm Gunnison, making do with jeans and a loose shirt. There was no sound from the other side of the wall—maybe she’d fallen asleep. It was more than likely—he’d done his best to wear her out in his bed, and when he left her sitting there, she had a slightly fragile look to her.
Sophie Jordan isn’t the slightest bit fragile, he reminded himself. She could fend for herself—he didn’t have to worry about her. She’d be fine. Just fine.
He unearthed his hidden PDA and messaged headquarters for a pickup, then headed downstairs, and he was almost at the bottom when the lights came on again, the fans starting up, machinery from the kitchen and outside providing a soft hum. To his surprise Sophie was already down there, dressed in jeans herself, no longer those flowing dresses to hide her supposedly useless legs. She was looking at him, a still, quiet expression on her face, and after a moment’s hesitation he walked into the living room.
He went straight to the small bar Archer had set up, pouring himself a scotch, neat. It kept him from having to look at her while he spoke, and he needed a drink. “I’m making arrangements to get you off the island,” he said, turning.
She’d skipped the sofa, taking the chair opposite, her long legs dangling over the side. She’d taken a shower herself—her hair was wet around her well-scrubbed face, and she looked like a child. But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. She was an operative, a failed one, to be sure, but dangerous nonetheless.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said with exquisite courtesy. “What are you going to be doing?”
“I’ve got more work to do. Just because Archer’s dead doesn’t mean my job is done.”
“What?” Her voice was a rough whisper, and he fought off his guilt. He should have told her sooner
, but he’d been too busy losing himself between her legs.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said, taking a sip of the whiskey while he waited to see whether she believed him. He couldn’t tell. “We landed together on the island. We had a disagreement on the old wooden steps up from the beach by the sugar mill.”
“Those steps are dangerous,” she said, still staring at him in shock. “They’re about ready to fall into the ocean.”
“They have fallen into the ocean,” he corrected her. “With your late husband.”
“He fell?”
“With a little help from me,” Mal said.
For a moment she said nothing, as if considering his words. She looked more dazed than relieved. “You’re certain he’s dead?” she said. “You saw his body?”
“It was pitch black with heavy rain and I was clinging to the very top of the stairs. I wasn’t in a position to go down and check for a pulse. Trust me, he wouldn’t have survived a fall like that.”
“You don’t know Archer,” she said glumly.
“You don’t know me.”
She reacted like he’d hit her, but a second later her face was calm. “No, I suppose I don’t,” she said quietly. “How long will it be before you never have to see me again?”
He didn’t bother to correct her. She needed to get away from him if she was going to have any kind of life at all. She’d already given up too many years to the Committee, just as he had. She needed to get away from all of them, but most of all him. He was pretty sure he’d managed to convince her of that.
“As soon as they can get here. It looks like the storm has passed, so it shouldn’t take too long.”
“Lovely,” she said. “So if he’s dead, what else do you have to do?”
“Find the man who designed RU48. Problem is, I have no fucking clue where he is, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to find him.”
She was giving him an odd look. “What’s his name?”
“Chekowsky. I’m sure you heard Archer talking about him.”
“And if you found Chekowsky you’d leave when I did? With me?” Her voice was wary, and he had absolutely no idea what she was getting at.
He shook his head. “We’re going different places.”
She nodded. “In that case,” she said, “try the wine cellar.”
Chapter Twenty
The self-proclaimed rat bastard was looking at her like she’d lost her mind, Sophie thought with a wistful trace of triumph. She wasn’t the complete loser he thought she was.
“What?” he thundered.
“Did you need him alive? Because I can’t guarantee that. I drugged him with Vicodin—he was more gullible than you. He was unconscious in less than ten minutes. He was too heavy for me to drag, so I put him in the wheelchair and dropped him down into the wine cellar. There was a lot of breaking glass, so if the Vicodin didn’t kill him, the broken wine bottles might have.”
He was still staring at her in disbelief. “He can be dead,” he said after a moment. “Just so long as no one else has him.”
She shrugged. “If he survived he ought to be awake by now. Do you want to go see?”
“Do you know the combination?”
“How do you think I got him in there in the first place?” She headed into the kitchen, not waiting for him to follow her. She put her ear to the door, but there was no sound from the cellar. Maybe he really was dead. At that point she couldn’t bring herself to care.
She was a fool, an idiot, even worse—she could have just kept her mouth shut and never embarrassed herself. What had she expected, protestations of undying love in return from the rat bastard? He didn’t have it in him. She was an idiot to love someone like that, and she had the sincere hope that any irrational and inconvenient feeling she might have would disappear when she didn’t have to look at him. It might take a while, but sooner or later she’d stop thinking about him. About the way his hands felt on her body. About the taste of him.
She slammed her fist against the door in sudden fury. “You alive down there, Dr. Chekowsky?”
No answer, but Mal was beside her, towering over her. She forgot how tall he was—she hadn’t been used to standing beside anyone at all. “Turn on the light,” she snapped, and bent down to the combination lock, twirling the dial expertly before slipping it free and opening the door.
There was no light down there, of course, but a quiet groan wafted up. She turned to Mal. “I guess he survived.”
She couldn’t read the look he gave her, and she didn’t care. “We better bring him up,” he said.
“What’s this we?” she said caustically. “There’s barely room for one person down there, much less three. And Dr. Chekowsky is no sylph.”
Mal gave her a look of exasperation mixed with a grudging respect. “Okay, hold the door open so I don’t get locked in.”
She considered it for a moment. “Don’t tempt me.”
A moment later he scrambled down the stairs, and she could hear more moaning and the sound of broken glass. She stuck her head down into the darkness, unable to make out a thing. “Is he still in one piece?”
“Barely,” Mal said, unmoved. “I’m going to get him to his feet and help him up the steps. You be there to catch him.”
“Have you taken a good look at him?” she shot back.
“You put him down here, so you’ll have to help get him out.”
She pulled her head back out of the open doorway, frowning. For a moment she thought she’d heard something from the living room, but the wind had been making a racket for days. She turned back to the cellar. “Okay, push him up. But I can’t promise I won’t let him fall back on top of you, and you wouldn’t like that one bit.”
“Don’t.” The one word was warning enough, and she sighed. A moment later Dr. Chekowsky’s head and shoulders appeared at the top of the stairs. He had a cut on his head, one that had bled liberally, and his beady little eyes managed to be unfocused and glaring at the same time.
“You bitch,” he spat.
“Play nice, Dr. Chekowsky, or I won’t help you out of there.” It was an empty threat. In fact, she was relieved he was in relatively good shape. She reached down for him, braced herself, and hauled him up into the kitchen, dumping him in the wheelchair as Mal leapt up behind him. He looked at the man in the chair.
“You can’t walk?” he said skeptically, and Sophie took the faint comfort that at least he was as abrupt with everyone, not just stupid women who said “I love you.”
Chekowsky fumed, pushing his little body out of the chair. “I can walk,” he said furiously, starting toward the door to the living room. “That terrible woman drugged me and then dumped me in that cellar,” he announced, heading through the door with Mal by his side, Sophie taking up the tail end of their little procession. “And she’s not even crippled.”
“No, she isn’t, is she?” said a smooth voice, and Sophie froze. Standing a few feet away from them was the ghost of her husband.
Chekowsky and Mal had halted as well, blocking her view, and she had a hard time looking around them. Archer was leaning against the sofa, looking like death warmed over. He was soaking wet, bruised and bloody, with the same insanely affable smile on his face, a gun in his hand. He was no longer so aristocratic looking—the storm had taken its toll on his patrician good looks. He was missing one of his impressive front teeth, and a trail of bloody footprints led from a set of French doors. She looked down and saw that one of his feet was soaked in red.
Archer pushed away from the sofa, moving across the room with a painful limp. Casually he put the gun under one arm as he poured himself a drink, much as Mal had done just a few minutes earlier. He took a sip, then beamed at them, repositioning the gun.
She was holding her breath, Sophie realized absently, and released it silently. She felt numb with shock, and she wanted to pinch herself to make certain she was awake, but she couldn’t move. Of course he wasn’t dead—hadn’t she known it, deep inside? It w
as never going to be that easy. He was still alive, and if she were extremely lucky, he would kill her instead of inflicting more psychological and physical torture.
But he’d kill Mal as well, and suddenly her frozen muscles moved, and she edged into the room. She wasn’t giving up.
“It takes a lot to kill me, baby,” Archer said. “Do any of you have weapons on you, hmm? I really don’t think we want a firefight in the living room, now do we? I’m already going to have to spend a fortune cleaning this place up from the storm damage. No? Excellent.”
Sophie glanced over at the sofa, just out of reach. Her gun was still tucked in the cushions, and she wondered whether she’d have a chance in hell of getting to it before Archer put a bullet between her eyes. Who would he try to kill first, her or Mal? Probably whichever would cause the most pain, but she couldn’t begin to guess at the way Archer’s mind worked.
“What are you doing back there, Sophie?” her husband crooned, trying to peer behind the two men. “Come on out and let me see you. I hadn’t realized there’d been a miraculous recovery.”
Maybe it was going to be her. She started to move, but Mal immediately blocked her way. “I don’t think you can kill us all, Archer,” he said in a cold voice. “Not before one of us gets to you.”
Archer laughed softly. “I must say, Malcolm, you did have me fooled, old man. I really believed your story—I’m impressed. I haven’t been particularly trusting since my sweet wife betrayed me. But right now I’m more interested in what my esteemed colleague is doing here. I told you that we were coming to you, Dr. Chekowsky. Did you have a reason for disobeying my instructions?”
“I’m not your servant!” the man snapped. “The Chekowsky Solution was finished and ready to go, and I got tired of waiting for you. Don’t worry, I brought everything with me.”
“The Chekowsky Solution?” Archer echoed. “Oh, dear me, no.” Before Sophie could realize what he was doing, he’d raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The doctor’s head exploded, splattering her as the man went down, twitching in an ever-widening pool of blood until he finally went still. Part of his skull had been blown away, and Sophie’s nausea increased. She jerked her eyes upward.
