Wildfire

by Anne Stuart

  Only the slightest twitch below her left eye showed she didn’t like being called “baby,” another fascinating bit of information that Archer missed entirely. “Not a problem,” Mal said, rising. “I’ll carry her and Joe can bring up the wheelchair.”

  Archer stared at him for a long moment, considering. And then he grinned, flashing his big, perfect teeth in a blinding smile. “You’re a better man than I am. She’s put on a few pounds while she’s been bedridden, and she’s no featherweight.”

  Mal checked her out of the corner of his eye, but she didn’t react to that jab at all. “I’m stronger than I look,” he said mildly. In fact, despite Archer’s bulked-up shoulders, Malcolm thought he could probably take Archer easily enough. He was naturally built along lean lines, but that didn’t mean he didn’t possess a deceptive amount of power.

  Archer smiled at the two of them impartially. “I’ll tell Joe to take his time,” he said, and disappeared back up the path.

  More of his twisted matchmaking, Mal thought, still clueless to the reasoning behind it. He rose, moving toward the chair.

  “I don’t mind a few bumps . . .” Sophie began, but Mal simply lifted her up in his arms, holding her against him. Archer was right—she was no sylph, but it felt like muscle beneath the flowing sundress, another interesting observation.

  “It’s starting to rain”—he cut her off—“and I’m not in the mood to get drenched.”

  She looked at him, her eyes at his level now, though his were still covered by mirrored sunglasses. “Then put me down and run back to the house. I’m waterproof.”

  “So am I,” he said, and started up the slope.

  Chapter Seven

  Malcolm moved up the path without the slightest effort, when the burly Joe would have been panting heavily, and Sophie tried to keep still. The rain had begun to fall in earnest, plastering them both, so that their damp bodies and wet clothes clung together as he strolled toward the house, and she did her best to hold herself stiff in his arms. For some idiotic reason she was tempted to press her head against his shoulder. There was something disturbing about being held tucked against him, his warmth flowing into hers.

  She was a tall, strong woman, but he was a tall, much stronger man, and everywhere her body touched he seemed hard as iron. She knew she should push him away, but she couldn’t. There would be no way to break free of his arms, not unless she had the chance to fight dirty, and even then he might be invulnerable. She couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking.

  He looked down at her. “Relax. I’m not about to carry you off and have my wicked way with you. You’re acting like my body is poison. It’s not.”

  “I’m not used to having men cart me around.” She tried to relax a little bit against him. The more she reacted to him, the weaker her position. She needed to be immune to the effect he had on her, or at least appear to be.

  “No? I thought you couldn’t walk.”

  She looked into the dark glasses, feeling her self-assurance come back. Here, at least, she could be truthful. “I spend most of the time in my room. When I leave it’s usually Joe who carries me.”

  There was the slightest hint of a smile on his mouth. “Joe’s not a man?”

  “Of course he is. I mean . . . that is . . .” She couldn’t think her way out of the mess she’d gotten into. She could hardly tell him that he was the only man she’d found attractive in years.

  He probably knew, but thank God he changed the subject. “You’ve got freckles,” he said. “Don’t you ever get out in the sun?”

  She considered not answering. “Not much. I burn easily.” A lie, but she’d already slipped up. He didn’t need to know that she hated her husband—it would put her in too much jeopardy. “The balcony off my bedroom is in such rough shape they keep the door locked so I don’t accidentally hurt myself.” Of course they did it to keep her imprisoned, but she was talking too much and couldn’t help herself. Breathing fresh air, today and yesterday, was its own painful pleasure. She’d grown so sick of the artificial, regurgitated air of her bedroom that she’d almost forgotten what the sea breeze felt like, tasted like. Maybe that was why she suddenly felt she couldn’t wait any longer to leave.

  He said nothing, not even a noncommittal sound, and when they crested the hill, Joe was waiting for them, an unhappy expression on his broad face. He reached for her and for a moment it seemed as if Mal’s arms tightened around her.

  Mal let her go without a word. For a moment their clothes stuck together, her sundress against his soaked linen shirt, and then Joe pulled her back, carting her off before she could control her rattled brain enough to utter a polite thank-you. When she glanced back over Joe’s shoulder, Mal was already gone.

  Half an hour later she lay stretched across her bed, her eyes drifting closed. It had to be midafternoon, and the rain hadn’t stopped. In the semitropical climate of Isla Mordita the daily rains usually lasted for no more than half an hour, filling the cisterns and leaving everything sunny and bright and newly washed. It was rare when the weather settled in for the entire day, turning the island into a veritable steam bath once the sun came out again.

  Today was one of those days when the sun seemed to have disappeared, plunging her large, sparsely furnished room into darkness. She should turn on the light to banish the shadows, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

  Sophie shivered slightly in the cool air. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her wet dress once Joe had taken her from Malcolm’s arms and returned her to her prison, and she knew she ought to find the remote control on her bedside table and at least turn down the air-conditioning, but she was feeling too indolent.

  She’d had the oddest feeling that Malcolm hadn’t wanted to relinquish her to Joe, which was, of course, ridiculous. They didn’t trust each other, though she had no idea what exactly he might suspect her of. In fact, any guest of Archer’s would be wise to suspect everyone, and Malcolm Gunnison was no fool.

  Neither was she. Archer surrounded himself with criminals, thieves, and murderers, and even the best of the bunch, like Joe and Marco, couldn’t be counted on. If Archer decided he’d had enough of her, she’d have no recourse. Marco liked his pills, but he liked being alive more, and disobeying Archer would put a swift end to it. Joe might be fond of her, but there wasn’t much room for sentiment in his tough old body. He’d spent a lifetime breaking the law, and if he had any softer feelings, they would have disappeared long ago.

  Maybe she should think about leaving sooner rather than later and forget about her plan to kill Archer. Someone else would have to take care of it, but she had little doubt it would happen eventually. She shouldn’t risk her sketchy escape plan just for the pleasure of putting a bullet between those baby blues. Even if it seemed to be Malcolm’s brilliant green eyes that kept haunting her.

  She rolled over onto her back, shivering slightly, careful to keep her legs limp and unresponsive. She knew where the cameras were, and while it was always possible Archer no longer had anyone watching her, she couldn’t afford to take a chance.

  Things had been the status quo for so long she’d thought she could afford to spend two more weeks in endurance training. It was early November—she’d randomly chosen the fifteenth as a good day to escape. In the past Archer had always returned to the mainland around that time, which coincided with his birthday. His elderly father was still alive, though with borderline dementia, and Archer made it a habit to visit him. The elder MacDonald probably didn’t recognize his son anymore. With a certain amount of glee Archer had informed her that the old man had forgotten her existence years ago, and the one time she’d met him, he hadn’t had much use for Archer. It had been startling, after watching everyone fawn over her husband, to see someone who didn’t seem to adore him, but later she decided that Armstrong MacDonald probably knew far too well exactly who and what her husband was. He’d reacted to her with a slightly impatient pity, which had disturbed Sophie even more at the time.

&nbs
p; Now she knew why.

  Joe always accompanied Archer when he left the island, but there would still be more than a handful of people watching her, people with strict orders to keep her in line. It was possible everyone on the island would be more alert when Archer was gone. It was just as possible they’d slack off, particularly if she did nothing to draw attention.

  Time was running out—she knew that as surely as she knew her own name. She could double her middle-of-the-night training efforts. She could fool anyone in the world, including Archer, that she was content in her confinement. At least she thought she could. With someone like Mal Gunnison she wasn’t quite so certain—if anyone could see through her charade, he would be the one.

  But why would he bother? He was probably no better than Archer, and she would fall very low on his radar. She just wished he hadn’t carried her through the rain, his hard, hard body holding hers. It had been so long since she’d been aware of any man—maybe her libido wasn’t dead after all. She had to put that out of her mind—she’d have more than enough time to explore her libido once she got off the island.

  She closed her eyes. It was late. She’d had Joe draw the room-darkening shades over the window, telling him she planned to nap, but even in the murky darkness sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Mal. Who is he? Why is he here?

  She closed her eyes. She wasn’t interested in watching movies, reading turgid Russian prose, or listening to the audiobooks that Emilia, one of the maids, would lend her when no one was looking. If she thought she had a chance in hell of getting away with it, she would have found a way to sneak into the room next door and see if she could find out any answers about Malcolm Gunnison, but the cameras would pick up her movements, and given her luck, Mal could return just as she was in the middle of it. She had no choice but to stay where she was.

  She was weary, confused, with too many things batting at her. The likelihood of Archer summoning her down to dinner again was low. She closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of the rain against the terra-cotta tiles on the roof, and drifted off.

  She heard him come into the room. She’d always been a light sleeper, and after the Committee she’d trained herself to wake at even the slightest unexpected breath. Someone was there, and she had absolutely no idea who it was.

  Common sense told her it was Rachel, snooping again, but even the practically silent tread sounded as if belonged to a male. Not Joe’s shuffle, and no other male servants would come upstairs. It had to be Archer, or Mal.

  She wanted it to be Mal, and that truth was such a shock that her eyes opened, when normally she would have feigned sleep. The man was sitting in the darkness, watching her, and she could barely see his silhouette. It’s all right, she told herself hurriedly. Of course she wanted it to be Malcolm. Malcolm had no reason to hurt her. Neither did Archer, but that had never stopped him before.

  “There you are, sleepyhead,” Archer cooed in a soft voice. “I wondered when you were going to wake up.”

  She lifted her head, summoning a sleepy smile. He wanted her to show fear, and that was the one thing she refused to do. “Have you been here long?”

  “A while,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about Mal.”

  “It’s probably not a good idea,” she said in a low voice. “These walls aren’t that thick. He could hear you.” Please leave, she thought desperately, showing none of it. Please, please leave.

  Archer leaned forward, and she could see the gleam of his oversized white teeth in the murky light. “That’s why I chose now. Your friend Malcolm has gone for a walk, and he’s halfway out to the sugar mill, according to my men. He won’t be back for at least an hour.”

  “But it’s raining,” she said. Archer could be lying, just trying to spook her. Tormenting her was one of his favorite pastimes, but he enjoyed psychological torture as much as he enjoyed hurting her.

  “You’ve been asleep. It stopped half an hour ago.” He rose, slowly approaching the bed. “I’m not happy about the way you look at my guest.”

  How do I look at his guest? Sophie thought in confusion. She’d done everything she could to appear unaffected by his presence. And hadn’t he wanted Malcolm to seduce her?

  She knew what was coming then. Archer never needed an excuse—he used whatever popped into his head. Malcolm was far away from any noise she or Archer might make, and her stomach was a knot.

  She pushed her body up into a sitting position, smiling at him hopefully. The first blow across her face almost threw her off the bed.

  Sophie lay on her stomach, fighting the need to curl up in the fetal position and hold her arms against herself. She sucked in her breath, listening to her body, trying to catalog what he’d done to her. She’d always been good with pain, and as far as she could tell he’d done nothing that would interfere with her escape. He hadn’t bothered hitting her legs—he believed she had no feeling in them and that wasn’t any fun for him. As long as she could run, she was in good shape.

  Her arm hurt—he’d wrenched it. That could a problem if she had to row, but she’d deal with that later. Right then all she wanted to do was lie still and regain some equilibrium.

  She heard the scratching noise from a distance, and she lifted her head. It was so quiet she thought she might have imagined it, but she had never been prey to her imagination. Were there mice on Isla Mordita? Even worse, were there snakes?

  She pushed herself up slowly, remembering to keep her legs still. She hated snakes with a fiery passion—a silly weakness that she hadn’t managed to overcome. She’d used her mental training to survive the endless days in the bedroom, the removal of any meaningful human interaction, Archer’s occasional temper tantrums like the one today, fits of rage that never had any rhyme or reason, and she figured she’d done a decent job of it. Once she got free she wasn’t going to curl up in a weeping bundle of PTSD.

  But she hadn’t been able to meditate away her fear of snakes.

  She heard the sound again, coming from the deck outside the door, and she froze, as the knob turned and the door was slowly pushed open.

  Malcolm stood there, silhouetted against the setting sun, and for a moment her breath caught, before she regained control of her common sense. With almost superhuman effort she managed to pull herself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain in her wrenched arm, the dull throb in her ribs. If he’d broken them she would have to find something to tape them with—otherwise they could slow her down if she had to make a run for it.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, furious that her voice came out a little shaky. She should have gotten used to Archer’s occasional attentions by now—there was no need for her to feel sorry for herself. He hadn’t had time to get properly worked up, and the bruises would fade quickly.

  “Archer said you fell down the stairs,” he said, and he sounded almost annoyed. “Why did you do a stupid thing like that?”

  “Why would you care?” she shot back without thinking. He’d sounded different in his irritation, and then she realized what it was. His English accent had faded.

  “I don’t, particularly,” he said, his anger vanishing as if it had never been there, and he stepped into the shadowy room. It was a lie, and she wondered why. Why he would care one way or another if she’d been hurt?

  “Then why are you here?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “The rain’s stopped,” he said, “and the sun is starting to come out.”

  “It usually does,” she said caustically. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here, and for that matter, where did you get the key for that door?” She knew perfectly well he’d picked it, just as he had last night. She even knew he’d deliberately made more noise this afternoon, just to alert her. Whoever he was, he was good. The fresh air drifted in, and she felt cool, healing energy begin to surge through her bruised body.

  His mouth curled, just slightly. “I decided you shouldn’t be kept a prisoner in this
room. You should at least have the run of the balcony.”

  “It’s covered with wood and construction debris,” she protested, stalling for time. She needed to get herself into the bathroom and assess the damages. Archer had come up with the perfect explanation for any bruises, but she wanted to see for herself how bad they were.

  “I cleared it. Hop into your chair and I’ll show you.”

  “I don’t hop anywhere,” she said severely.

  His smile was wider now, startling her. He’d been so dark and unreadable that seeing him actually smile was unsettling. It was a charming smile, hinting that there was more beneath his cool, distant exterior. “Of course you don’t,” he said soothingly. “My bad. I forget you’re paralyzed.”

  She should believe him, but she didn’t. She’d given him absolutely no reason to suspect her, but there was something going on behind those green eyes, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what it was. She knew one thing—she should never underestimate Malcolm Gunnison.

  She pushed her legs over to the side of the bed, not bothering to hide her grimace of pain. The ribs felt bruised, not broken, and the side of her face throbbed, but it was her right arm and shoulder that hurt the most, that had taken the brunt of his punishment, and using them to lever her body into the chair made her want to whimper. Nothing that a little ibuprofen, ice, and sheer will wouldn’t bring under control, but she wasn’t about to show weakness in front of Mal. She landed in the chair a little less gracefully than usual, and her limp legs hit against the footrests with a clanging sound. She needed to be left alone to lick her wounds. He wasn’t getting the message.

  She picked up her legs and placed her supposedly useless feet on the footrests before she unlocked the wheels. At least she didn’t need to pretend about the pain, and she slowly wheeled herself around the big bed to stop in front of him as he filled the French doors. She could see the sun behind him, sparkling off the rain-damp palm trees, and she could smell the hypnotic ambrosia of the ocean and wet earth. Pain was the least of her problems, and she knew with sudden certainty that nothing could keep her locked in her bedroom anymore, not common sense, not her sadistic husband, not the danger that Malcolm Gunnison represented, not even the risk of her escape. He was gilded by the sunlight, but he was no angel—of that she was sure. But the question still remained—was he a devil?