by Anne Stuart
He’d even taken the boat out on his own for the sheer pleasure of it. This island was making him edgy; everything was getting on his nerves. Normally he wouldn’t have visited Sophie as he had yesterday while they had a guest in residence. It could bring up too many questions, and he planned to have a great deal of fun with her once Mal concluded his business and disappeared.
But yesterday he hadn’t been able to wait. It had been a need, driving him, and his pleasure had been so absolute that it had taken Kirsty only two good sucks to get him off later on. He hadn’t decided if he wanted to hurt Sophie again, to punish her, or if he was in the mood to forgive her. He was feeling positively sentimental. It was probably Sophie’s slightly dazed, “I’ve been royally fucked” look. Made him think of old times.
No, taking a break might be just what he needed, at least until he decided what he planned to do with Mal. He wanted to watch the man fuck his wife. He wanted to cut the man’s throat.
There was no reason he couldn’t do both. Clearly the two of them had enjoyed their little tryst in the forest—it shouldn’t take much to get them to do it again in view of a camera. He’d always wanted to watch—now the promise of violence between the two of them was even more enticing.
He just had to decide exactly what it was he wanted. And then it would be his for the taking.
Sophie checked the gun before she reached the bottom step. Her bare feet were cold on the stone floor, but she didn’t mind. It reminded her she was alive, that her body worked, and that she could do this. She edged toward the doors that were open onto the terrace, very, very slowly, following the circumference of the room to avoid casting any telltale shadows. Archer was alone out there, nursing his drink just as she’d suspected. A creature of habit was always easier to take down, Isobel, the woman who had trained her, once had told her. Someone who thought he was invulnerable made it close to child’s play. This was going to be a piece of cake.
The only thing that would make it better was if she’d had a silencer. She halted for a moment, considering. There was such a thing as a poor man’s silencer—she could filch a potato from the kitchen and cram that onto the barrel of the gun. That, or take one of the pillows from the curving sofa in the middle of the room, but that might ruin her aim. She needed to be precise, deadly, if she had a chance in hell of getting away with it, and she definitely preferred it that way. She’d already spent enough of her life as a martyr.
Three of the four doors facing the pool and ocean were open—Archer was by the farthest one. She stopped at the edge of the first and checked her sites. His head was just above the edge of the chaise, and it would be an easy shot from that relatively close range. She could even get off a couple of rounds, just to be sure, before throwing the gun away and racing back upstairs. She wasn’t worried about fingerprints or gunpowder residue. As long as she didn’t have the gun in her possession, no one would really give a damn.
She raised the gun, slowly, silently, taking in a deep, steadying breath, and aimed it at Archer’s head, carefully cocked it, and pulled the trigger.
The only sound was a very audible click.
The arm that shot around her was so fast and strong she couldn’t fight back. Her hand went numb, she was slammed back against a hard body, and then a hand covered her mouth, silencing any noise she might be fool enough to make. She didn’t resist. The Beretta had been sabotaged, and there was only man who could have done it. The man who had given it to her, the man who held her.
Malcolm Gunnison.
Chapter Fifteen
At least Sophie had the good sense to stop struggling, to remain absolutely still in his arms, Malcolm thought, and he slowly moved his hand from her mouth. She knew better than to make a sound, particularly when the scrape of the iron furniture against the stone patio screamed in the night.
He shifted his hold, gripping her wrists together in one hand while he tucked the handgun in the back of his jeans. At least now he knew that she wasn’t playing him—she had been more than ready to shatter Archer’s skull, and a part of him was sorry he couldn’t let her do just that. But his temporary fury with Archer had faded—too much was riding on this mission, more than simple revenge.
He crowded her into the corner of the nearest door, one that was still closed to the warm night air, and pulled them behind the floor-length drapes. If Archer had heard that quiet click, if he decided to turn on the lights and search the room, then their hiding place wouldn’t last, and Mal might have no choice but to terminate his host, leaving the job half-finished. But he wasn’t ready to give up yet.
Sophie was scarcely breathing, unmoving in his arms. Unmoving except for the occasional stray shudder that vibrated through her. If they got away with this tonight, they were going to have to have a long conversation when they found a place without surveillance. Archer had planted a new bug in his room, one Mal had decided to leave in place. He was better off with Archer thinking he knew what was going on. Besides, the Committee had had that technology for a couple of years now, and he knew there was no microphone. He could say any damned thing he wanted, as long as things looked right.
Archer came into the large living room, his sandaled feet shuffling. He had a drink in one hand, and he appeared to be half in the bag. Archer could hold his liquor better than anyone Mal had ever met, but right now he didn’t know he had an audience. There was no need for him to act sober if, in fact, he wasn’t.
Except they’d made enough noise to rouse him from his position on the chaise, exactly where Mal had left him two hours earlier, though he’d had Kirsty servicing him noisily. Mal had never been into voyeurism, and the sex going on in front of him simply reminded him of Sophie—Sophie, whom he wasn’t going to touch again if he could help it.
And yet here he was, wrapped around her like a fur coat, his dick hard, pressing into her. She was probably too freaked to notice, which was just as well. He had every intention of keeping it in his pants unless he had a damned good reason not to.
Archer turned on the table lamp next to the suffocating sofa, humming to himself, and Mal cursed inwardly. If Archer suspected something, it wouldn’t take him long to find them. Or he might be smart and call for reinforcements. Either way, they could be royally screwed.
Which brought him back to Sophie again, breathless against his body. If they got out of this current mess, maybe he would screw her again. The problem was that then they couldn’t pretend they didn’t want to do it. Sophie had come twice and hated him. If they didn’t have an excuse she might not be able to take what she wanted. What he wanted. What they needed.
Her skin was warm in the night air. She wasn’t wearing much—the same sort of outfit she’d worn when she’d crept into his room the previous night, thinking she’d managed to drug him into a stupor. She was far too naïve, but then, she’d been thrown in the deep end before she’d been ready. If she had a few successful missions under her belt, she’d be more careful about rushing into things.
He pulled her tighter against him. He needed to be ready to shove her behind him if Archer had a gun, but as far as he could tell, Archer hadn’t been carrying the entire time he was here. He relied on others to do his dirty work.
So far Archer hadn’t summoned Joe. Mal could see him through a crack in the curtains, and his host was simply standing there, weaving slightly, as he turned his head and looked up at the stairs.
He was considering paying his wife a visit, Mal thought with a controlled, deadly fury. He must be jonesing for her pretty bad if he was going to risk offending his guest. Mal had insisted he wouldn’t share Sophie with her husband, and he’d said it more to annoy Archer than anything else, but the moment the words left his mouth, he knew he meant them. Archer wasn’t going to touch Sophie, not now or ever again.
To his relief Archer turned away, wandering toward the kitchen, and a moment later he was out of sight. Sophie wriggled slightly in Mal’s arms, assuming they were home free, but he simply tightened his grip, keeping her still.
With good reason. Archer reemerged from the kitchen, a plate of food in one hand. He sank down on the enveloping couch and began to eat a sloppy, overstuffed sandwich, and Mal sighed inwardly. Sophie had gone from feeling warm to being cold all over, her body vibrating, and he needed to get her away from here before she lost it. She’d psyched herself up to kill Archer, and the sudden letdown was making her woozy. He really didn’t want her collapsing in his arms.
Then again, that would be the smartest thing to do. If Archer found them, he could say he’d been carrying her downstairs for a little sex in unexpected places.
Archer leaned back in the sofa, sinking into it, leaving half his sandwich on the plate. If he fell asleep there, it was going to be tricky to get back upstairs. Mal could do it with no problem, but not lugging Sophie. She’d gone from occasional tremors to shaking, and he knew the signs of someone going into shock. He was going to have to cover her mouth again if her teeth started chattering. He couldn’t even whisper calming words—Archer was too close, and stroking her might get the opposite reaction. He had no choice but to hold her in the iron circle of his arms and hope to Christ that Archer decided to go to bed.
It was another five minutes before his patience was rewarded. Archer rose, his gaze sweeping around the shadowed room, then fixating once more on the graceful staircase. Then, to Mal’s relief, he turned and headed for his bedroom.
Mal waited another five minutes. If it had been him alone, he would have stayed for an hour, but Sophie was leaning against him, letting him support her, and he needed to get her out of there as soon as he could. With a silent profanity that was half curse, half prayer, he picked her up in his arms and moved to the stairs.
No one popped out from behind a door, no lights flooded the place. He took the steps three at a time, easy enough with his long legs despite the weight in his arms, and a moment later they were on the landing, and he had to decide on the safest place to take her. Her own room was still bugged, and that one camera in his place was focused on the bed. He pushed his own door open, silently, easing her through it, prepared to subdue her if she realized where he was taking her and decided to fight him.
Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care. She was trying to catch her breath—difficult when she didn’t want to make a sound—and he carried her straight through his bedroom, skirting the range of the camera and taking her out into the night air on the balcony. Not the best choice for someone nearing shock conditions, but he’d have to find other ways to make her warm.
He sank down in one corner in the darkness, well out of range of the cameras, still holding her. She immediately tried to scramble away from him, but he had no intention of letting her go, and his hold tightened to just this side of painful. Maybe it went over a bit, because her soft mouth tightened in a grim line.
“Stay still,” he breathed, hardly any sound on the night air. “You almost fucked everything up royally tonight, you idiot. I need a moment to get my breath and my temper back under control.”
She stopped struggling, probably not because of his words, but because it was useless. He could feel when her body calmed, when the heat began to return to her skin. He could have released her then, but he didn’t want to.
“You fucked with the gun,” she said finally in a low voice that only held a faint tremor. “I know it worked before—I broke it down and checked it. What did you do, take the firing pin?”
“The classics are the still the best,” he said. “I couldn’t risk having you kill Archer before I’d finished my mission, and I wasn’t going to give you the chance to put a bullet in me.”
She had to be feeling better—her eyes were filled with fury. “Then why give me the gun in the first place? I know you did—you’re too good to leave weapons so easily available. You also know that you never point a gun unless you intend to use it, and having one that was tampered with could have gotten me killed. Maybe you enjoy games the way Archer does.”
He told himself that particular jab didn’t sting. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“You do if you don’t want another enemy to deal with.”
He cocked his head, looking down in her face in the murky light. She felt good in his arms, draped across his lap, and he knew he was still hard with her sweet butt riding him. He wondered if she knew. “We were already enemies.”
She didn’t deny it. “Not mortal ones.”
He sighed, and she managed to scramble off him. He made no effort to hold her there—he could bring her back at any time, and for now he was better off without her body pressed against his. It distracted him when he couldn’t afford to be distracted. “I left the gun because I thought you could do with some form of protection besides your body. It was only later that I realized you were too hotheaded to make sensible decisions. After our time in the boathouse I was afraid you’d put one of those .22s in my brain, and I thought I’d better hedge my bets. If I’d known you were going to go after Archer that fast, I would have done something about it.”
“You did.”
“I almost didn’t make it. You’re just lucky he didn’t hear the click of the gun.”
“I don’t know if I believe in luck. He came inside immediately afterward—he must have heard something,” she said stubbornly.
“But he didn’t call for reinforcements and he didn’t go looking for anyone.”
“I told you, Archer likes to play games. This island is his own private fiefdom. He has complete control over everything, and if he did hear the click, he would have known exactly what it was. Meaning the gun didn’t work and he was safe. If I were you I’d be extra careful about the rest of your arsenal.”
“The only reason you found the guns was that I wanted you to. Trust me, Archer’s not going to find them now.”
“Don’t underestimate Archer. He can find anything he wants.”
“Then you’d better do something about that stash of pills in your bed.”
She glared at him, but didn’t respond. “Are you going to give me the firing pin?”
“Are you going to promise not to shoot Archer until it’s time?”
“You mean you’ll let me do it?” she said skeptically.
He shrugged. “I figured you earned the right. But I need to make sure RU48 is dealt with first. Promise?”
Her face was cool, impassive, but he could feel the anger and heat boiling beneath the surface. “And you’d trust me?”
“No.”
“Then why bother asking?”
“In fact, I don’t feel like asking.” He could move fast, and she wasn’t at the top of her game. He’d hauled her back into his arms before she could react, so that she straddled him, and he was ready to restrain her flailing body with one arm as he cupped her chin with his hand.
She didn’t fight, and he didn’t kiss her. They stayed that way, looking at each other for a long moment. He couldn’t read her thoughts, and he knew damned well she couldn’t read his. But there would be no question she could feel his hard cock beneath her. It was up to her what she wanted to do about it.
She pulled her arms free from his grasp, and he let her go, leaning back against the wall, waiting. If she tried to get away he could stop her, but wouldn’t. This was up to her to take what she wanted.
She was statue still, looking at him, her teeth sunk in her lower lip, and he felt an odd little hitch in the area of what might be called his heart. She reminded him of a defiant child, determined not to react, terrified and brave as hell at the same time, and for the first time since he could remember, he felt like a bully. She was vulnerable, whether she wanted to admit it or not, and she was trying desperately not to show it.
She also wanted him. He knew that too. If he let her go, she would scramble away from him, probably try to kill him the first chance she got. He watched her warily, not touching her. He would let her go. He could be a decent human being for a change.
“You’re such a bastard,” she said with barely a trace of
sound, but they were close enough that he heard her anyway.
“I know.” There was no shame or regret in his response, no guilt for all the things he had done. He simply was who he was, and he’d learned long ago the futility of trying to be someone else.
She didn’t climb off him. She simply stared at him, and the heat moved between them like a living thing, slow and sensuous. She was no longer fighting it. She shook her head, though he had no idea whether it was disappointment in him or disgust at her own reaction. And then she reached down for the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it over her head, leaving her half-naked in the dark, astride him, only the skimpy boxers covering her.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, for fear he’d spook her. Her breasts were perfect, he thought. Not quite a handful, with taut nipples from the night air. Or maybe something else.
She put her hands on him, reaching for his shirt, and he let her, watching her as she pulled it off, throwing it onto the balcony. “Well?” she said.
He could have taken over then. He might have, but this was up to her. “Well?” he echoed, his hands beside him.
Her soft mouth twisted in annoyance, and he was ready for her to climb off, determined not to catch her and pull her back no matter how much it killed him, when her hands dropped down to the waistband of his jeans, flicking open the button. The zipper was beginning to part with the thrust of his erection pressing against it, and she didn’t hesitate, pulling it down all the way, exposing the soft gray cotton of his boxers. Then she reached for his hips, and he lifted up, enough for her to shove everything down his thighs, and his cock throbbed between them. She shifted a bit, down and back, straddling his thighs, and he could feel she was wet through the last bit of clothes she was wearing. If anything it made him even harder, and he wanted to get his mouth on her nipples, he wanted to suck at them, pull at them, bite them.
“Move back,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”
