Wildfire

by Anne Stuart

  Mal toweled off when he came out of the shower and headed to the closet. The suitcase was two inches off the imperceptible mark he’d left that morning, and he nodded in satisfaction as he dragged it out. She’d taken the Beretta and the bullets, just as he’d intended. Did she think he wouldn’t notice? She probably didn’t give a damn. Some nearly forgotten sense of fairness told him she needed at least a fighting chance in this volatile situation. That didn’t mean she could be trusted—leaving that handgun for her might backfire, and she was probably already considering taking him out as well.

  Serves me right, he thought, shoving the suitcase back. Leaving a gun for her had been quixotic at best, more likely bone-stupid, and if he ended up with one of those tiny bullets in his brain, he could at least be sure she’d finish Archer as well. Mission accomplished, and he really didn’t give a shit about anything else. He was burned out and everyone knew it, but there’d been no one else to send, no one with the right qualifications.

  There was, of course, always the remote possibility that someone else might stop him as well. He was going to have to make sure she knew everything, and he hated that. He didn’t like working with partners, and when he did, it was at least someone he’d known for years and could trust.

  He wouldn’t trust Sophie farther than he could throw her, and she was a more solidly muscled handful than she had seemed. He had to consider that her entire wheelchair act might be a conceit of Archer’s—they could both be playing him. She certainly made it convincing, though, when she looked up at Archer with melting adoration.

  He needed to remember that, in case she ever turned those pansy-brown eyes up to his with similar passion, unlikely though the thought seemed. She’d betrayed the Committee; she seemed ready to betray Archer. She’d probably do anything to stay alive, including selling him out at the first chance she got.

  He was going to have to be very, very careful.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Archer MacDonald said to Mal with one of his affable grins. “It’s a cloudy day, but the weather never stays bad for long, and you look to me like a man who needs a vacation.”

  Mal stretched back in the wicker chair in Archer’s office, letting the glass of iced tea warm in his hands. He made it a habit to avoid drinking things that were handed to him whenever he could get away with it, and Archer wasn’t paying attention, clearly focused on other matters entirely. Mal waited patiently for Archer to come to the point.

  “I don’t need vacations,” he said in the bored voice he used for this incarnation of Malcolm Gunnison.

  Archer looked shocked. “Everyone needs vacations! You aren’t a machine.”

  “I try,” he said, as low affect as he could manage. “I will admit it’s been very pleasant here, whether I needed it or not.”

  Archer’s grin widened, and Mal gazed limpidly at his long, aristocratic teeth. Had the upper classes once been crossbred with their horses he thought absently. Almost everyone of the so-called upper crust seemed to have large, slightly protruding teeth. “I knew you liked it!” Archer crowed. “If I really thought you weren’t having a good time, I would have had to do something about it.”

  “Like what?”

  Archer shrugged. “Have you killed,” he said affably.

  “I doubt that would improve my enjoyment of Isla Mordita.”

  “Just kidding, old man,” Archer said airily. Did men really call each other “old man” nowadays? Mal asked himself. It seemed to him that Archer was playing some sort of role too. “I would have found another way to make you like it here. I don’t give up once I set my mind on something.”

  Mal looked at him. It sounded like a tossed-off sentiment, but Mal wasn’t fooled. Archer would do anything to get his way, and beneath that upper-class, Ivy League charm, he could be absolutely ruthless. “Neither do I,” Mal said.

  Their eyes met for a moment, predator to predator, and there was a moment of stillness. Then Archer spoke. “I would have expected nothing less from a man in your position.” He lifted his head, and all seriousness vanished. “I think my wife has decided to join us.”

  Mal had heard it too—Joe’s heavy breathing on the winding steps, the hush of wheels against the tiled floor. Sophie was bringing the battle to them. He gave a half smile. “Good. No offense, old man,” he used Archer’s archaic term deliberately, “but I’d rather look at her face than yours.”

  “There is something about her,” Archer admitted. “You should see her when she’s dressed up—she can be quite stunning. A far cry from the slightly bedraggled and worn-out invalid she is now.”

  Mal couldn’t imagine someone looking less bedraggled or worn out. He surreptitiously touched his bruised side, remembering her knee. “I thought you were trying to talk me into fucking her.”

  Archer’s grin widened. “Are you interested?”

  “I might be.” Mal’s voice was flat, giving nothing away.

  Archer was almost gleeful. “Actually that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m going to need you to take care of that today.”

  Mal raised an eyebrow, keeping his expression unruffled. “Why?” he said calmly.

  “I’m worried about her,” Archer said mournfully. “You saw her bruises. I hate to tell you, but those were self-inflicted. I caught her just in time. She’s so anxious and depressed about being in the wheelchair that she’s about reached her limit. I need you to screw the shit out of her.”

  That was a pathetically weak reason, and Mal wasn’t about to hop to it. The man Archer knew didn’t take orders. “I don’t have a magic dick, Archer. She’s your wife—why don’t you fuck her into a good mood?”

  “Oh, I would. But I have this little problem.” He made a face. “I was less than careful during a recent business trip, and I’m afraid I’m a bit under the weather, so to speak. Nothing antibiotics won’t cure, but Sophie’s immune system is compromised because of her condition, and even with a condom I couldn’t take the risk.”

  Jesus, Mal thought. “What makes you think I don’t have similar or even worse problems?” he drawled.

  “Do you?”

  “No.” He was tempted to lie and say he had herpes, but that probably wouldn’t make any difference. Archer wasn’t going to be taking Sophie to bed again—Mal could read the signs. Sophie was on borrowed time, and only his arrival had stopped her eventual execution. “What makes you think she’ll even have me?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen the way she looks at you. We agreed after the accident that that part of our marriage was over, but she still has needs. She’d have you if you aren’t too squeamish.”

  “Squeamish?” he echoed, then realized Archer was referring to Sophie’s supposed disability.

  But Archer wasn’t. “A tiny show of force might be necessary.”

  “You want me to rape your wife?” Mal was good at hiding his reactions, but this time it was called for.

  “Oh, it wouldn’t go that far. I told you, she wants you. You’re the only thing she’s shown the slightest bit of interest in for years. I think that’s what brought her to . . . hurt herself. Your arrival made her realize everything that she was missing . . .” Archer paused for dramatic effect, secure in the belief that Mal was swallowing all of this. “Either you have to give her what she needs, or I’ll make other arrangements for the Pixiedust.” He smiled like a saint. “I have to put my wife’s well-being ahead of business, old man. You understand.”

  Mal kept his gaze on the horizon, his mind working feverishly. Why would Archer be fixated on this, so much so that he was willing to risk his current deal? Of course he had other clients, but Archer should think twice about offending Mal’s purported boss, one of the most powerful men in the world. It seemed that Archer was still dangerously obsessed with his treacherous wife and his need to punish her. If he weren’t, he would have finished the job he’d started two years ago and had her killed. Keeping her alive was illogical—his need to torment her was a weakness Mal
could exploit. Too bad that Sophie was a pawn between them, but she’d known what she signed up for when she’d first joined the Committee. That it was worse than she’d expected was no one’s fault but her own.

  “I understand,” he said finally, not turning to look at Archer. “My employer is not the kind of man who accepts failure.”

  “Then you know what you have to do.” Archer’s voice was practically a purr of satisfaction, and Mal felt his stomach twist. Right then the last thing he wanted to do was put a hand on Sophie MacDonald, even as the possibility of her thrummed through his body. She’d bitch, she’d scream, she’d bite. And she wanted him, a fact that he knew filled her with disgust. He hadn’t spent so long in the business without being able to read people, and he knew she was frustrated with her own mixed feelings.

  His were mixed as well. She was a dangerous woman and he was far too susceptible to her. If he fucked her, he wouldn’t be able to kill her, and that might just turn out to be a necessity. His hatred for Archer had reached immeasurable proportions. The fact that Archer had practically ordered him to screw his wife, something Mal wanted very much, only made it worse.

  What if this was all a setup? What if Archer and his former-Committee wife were working together on a way to trap him? If his cover had been blown, why hadn’t Archer had Mal killed?

  He rose in one fluid motion. There was only one way to find out. “Lead the way.”

  She was sitting curled up on the sofa, exactly where Malcolm had first seen her, though without Archer draped all over her. The wheelchair was discreetly off to one side, and she looked at home as she smiled up at her husband, the bruise at the side of her face already fading. “Hello, darling,” she said, and Mal had the oddest impression she was greeting him, not her husband. Not that she’d call him “darling.” More likely “you son of a bitch.”

  “Baby!” Archer breathed, moving forward to kiss her cheek. Her bruised one, and he kissed it hard. Sophie didn’t even blink. She reached up for him, but Archer deftly pulled away. “You look like a dream sitting there, my love, but I have a few things to check on. I had no idea you felt up to joining us for lunch.”

  “You won’t sit with me?” She made a perfectly believable moue of disappointment.

  “Can’t do it. But Mal will join you—give you two time to get to know each other.”

  Mal could see her open her mouth to protest, but she saved her breath. He allowed Archer to maneuver him, push him down on the overstuffed sofa next to Sophie. The cushions were so soft she fell forward against him, and he could smell the faint gardenia scent of her skin, her hair.

  “Be careful with the man, baby,” Archer said with a hearty laugh that Mal wanted to cram down his throat. “He had a rough night, and he’s got a gash on his arm from falling on a shard of glass. Don’t be too energetic—we don’t want it to start bleeding again.”

  She raised her eyebrows, looking at Mal. “You cut yourself?” It was a limpid question—she knew perfectly well she had bitten him like a rabid bitch, drawing blood.

  He shrugged casually, leaning back into the octopus-like hold of the soft couch, feeling her settle against him. “Serves me right for drinking too much. Elena, the woman in the kitchen, stitched me up.”

  He could see the color bleach from her face, and he deliberately knocked one knee against hers in silent warning. She must have gotten the message, and she threw her head back and laughed. It was entirely feigned, of course, and he wondered what she’d look like if she really laughed. “You poor thing! It just goes to show how thick the walls are in this house, though. I never heard anything.”

  “Oh, I was crashing around like an elephant,” he said easily, shifting a little, and he felt her body come to rest against his again, hip to hip. She couldn’t push away—she wasn’t supposed to have the strength, and he wasn’t about to help her. “I ended up falling on a broken glass and slicing my arm open. Bled like a stuck pig.”

  She’d gotten over the shock, and she smiled brightly at him. “Well, I’m glad you learned your lesson. You need to be more careful.”

  “Being careful is for wimps.”

  Archer was beaming fondly at both of them, as if viewing a perfect arrangement of flowers. “You two are so cute together,” he said. “I bet Sophie can give you a run for your money, Mal. She’s a very bright girl.” It would have been easy to miss the malice in his voice. “I’m heading out to the south end of the island—Joe told me there’s been some erosion near the old sugar mill that I need to check on. You can carry her up to the bedroom if she gets tired, can’t you, Mal? I’m afraid Joe and I won’t be back for several hours.”

  Okay, if that’s how you want to play it, Mal thought. “And where’s your harem?”

  If there was a slight annoyance in Archer’s eyes, it passed quickly. “They’re off-island on a shopping trip. I told them to pick up something for you, baby, but we couldn’t decide what. You don’t like jewelry and you hardly need shoes.”

  “I don’t need anything, Archer,” she said quietly, making no attempt to move away from Mal. “Just you.” She looked up at her husband, practically batting her eyes, and for some reason it annoyed Mal.

  Archer’s solicitous smile irritated Mal even more. “We should be back in two or three hours. Remember your promise, Malcolm. I’m counting on you to entertain my wife. And Sophie, baby, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Of course, that’s asking for trouble, isn’t it?”

  Archer didn’t wait for a reply and headed out the door. Sophie sat in silence next to Mal, and Mal could feel the warmth of her body through his thin cotton shirt, could even sense her slightly elevated pulse. He said nothing either, waiting, until they heard the sound of the four-wheeler revving up and then fading into the distance as it moved up-island.

  Sophie put her strong hands on him and shoved, hard, but the billowing sofa only made him fall back against her. “Would you mind sitting somewhere else?” she hissed in a low voice.

  “Archer and company may be gone, but I doubt he’s turned off the surveillance equipment,” he said in an audible voice.

  There was a faint stain of color across her cheeks, but she nodded. “I want you to know I love my husband, Mr. Gunnison,” she said loudly, her eyes boring into his.

  “Don’t you think we’ve come far enough that you can call me Mal? And yes, I know you love your husband. He’s a formidable man.” It wouldn’t do any harm to pass on a little flattery in the surveillance tapes. “But I’m getting the impression that he wouldn’t mind.”

  “Wouldn’t mind what?” she said, deliberately baiting him. They were playing a scene for the camera and they both knew it, but she seemed determined to throw him off his lines.

  “Wouldn’t mind if I fucked you,” he said flatly.

  She blinked, her only reaction to the word. “Don’t I get a say in the matter?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “My husband loves me.” He could see the disgust in her eyes while she kept her voice soft.

  “I’m sure he does. And he wants you to be happy. That’s why he’s offering me up on a silver platter.”

  “And you’re the Thanksgiving turkey?” she snapped.

  He couldn’t help it—he laughed. “I think you’re the one who’s supposed to get stuffed.”

  She made a choking sound, which might even have been laughter. “You’re a pig,” she said.

  “On occasion. Sometimes there’s a lot to be said for getting down and dirty.”

  Her eyes widened, and this was no feigned reaction. He felt a little shiver run over her warm body, and it wasn’t disgust. “I’m afraid that’s something I don’t have much interest in.”

  “Don’t you, now?” His voice was a deliberate taunt, and he shifted slightly, just enough to bump softly against her body. He felt her shiver again, and her skin was warm. She smelled of body heat and gardenia-scented soap, and he wondered what would happen if he licked her exposed throat. Probably an elbow in the other kidne
y. He smiled at her benevolently. “You’re in a bad mood, aren’t you? I think you need your coffee. Should I summon Elena?”

  “With a princely clap of your hands? I don’t think so,” she said. “Elena’s busy enough.”

  “So you’d rather just sit here and cuddle?”

  It was enough to get her moving. “If you’d be kind enough to get me my wheelchair, I can go get my own coffee.”

  He considered it. On the one hand, having the soft cushions imprison her against his body was definitely inspiring—he was half-tempted to see how far he could go with the cameras rolling. He knew women—even the toughest ones—changed once they’d screwed someone, and he was very interested to see what Sophie would do once he’d gotten inside her. All in the interests of the mission, you virtuous bastard, he told himself. After all, what could Archer do to him if he refused? He was unlikely to jeopardize his relationship with a man like Mal’s supposed employer. But the damned thing was, Mal wanted the excuse, wanted a reason to touch her, to take her, to fuck her.

  That was probably part of the secret to Archer’s unimpeded accumulation of wealth and power. He knew exactly what someone wanted, deep inside, and he got it for them, guilt-free. Which meant the very last thing Mal should do was touch Sophie.

  With little effort he got to his feet, and she immediately fell over on the buoyant cushions, glaring at him as she pushed herself upright again. “In fact, I need a cup of coffee myself,” he said.

  He could absolutely see the wheels turning in her gorgeous, angry brown eyes. She wanted him to go away, but then she’d be trapped on the billowy sofa and he could come back at any time. He didn’t wait for her to decide, he simply retrieved her wheelchair and brought it to her, setting the locks. He started to lean down to pick her up but she reared back.