by Anne Stuart
Sophie set her coffee down. “He didn’t change his mind, Remy. He died.” Damn, she hated those words. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were true, she never could feel it in her heart.
“Sorry,” he said again. “So what are you going to do in Oregon? You’ve got so much money you probably don’t ever have to work again. Wouldn’t last me more than a couple of years, but then, I like my creature comforts. You’re more on the penitential side.”
“Remy . . .” she said in a dangerous voice.
“I know, I know,” he said, sounding not the least bit sorry.
“I have to get back to my office.”
“Why? You don’t have any real work to do.”
“I have bosses to kill in Dark Souls Three,” she said grimly.
“You and your computer games. I can’t get anywhere with that one—I think I’m more of a zombie guy. If you’re going to pick a game, why don’t you go for something a little less gruesome? Like World of Warcraft?”
“I like gruesome,” she said, shoving her hair back from her face. “And I’m about to go get me some.”
Remy moved fast, stationing himself by the door. “You still haven’t told me what you’re going to do in Oregon.”
“Watch the storms over the Pacific Ocean, drink craft beer, and read anything I damned well please, as long as it’s not written by a Russian.” Remy would have no idea what she was talking about, but she didn’t care. And then she softened. “You can come and visit me if you ever get tired of all this sunshine.”
“It rains here plenty. Don’t you remember a little storm named Katrina that did a number on this town?”
“I do,” she said, feeling unaccountably guilty. She’d been in such a cesspool of misery that she’d stopped considering all the shit other people had gone through. Lots of people lose the one they love. And it wasn’t as if he had given a flying fuck about her.
Who says I don’t like you? Those had been his dying words, and for a declaration of true love, they left a lot to be desired. It didn’t matter. She treasured those words like they were a Shakespearean sonnet.
“And frankly, I think you’re a fool to refuse your husband’s money. He didn’t leave a will, and apart from his father you’re his only heir. His father won’t touch that money, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t enjoy it.”
“It’s blood money, Remy. And I don’t need it, remember? I’ve got plenty.”
“There’s no such thing as too much money, darlin’,” he said with the solemnity such a statement deserved.
She sighed. “We’ll argue about it later. I’m going back to my office . . .” She was moving past him when he jumped in her way, startling her so much she sloshed hot coffee on both of them.
“Not quite yet, sugar buns.”
She halted, staring up at him, a stern expression on her face. “What’s going on, Remy?”
“Someone’s coming from the London office,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.
“So?” she said. “Why does it matter to me? They’ve had almost a complete turnover since I trained there. The only one still there is . . . Peter Madsen,” she ended on a depressed note. “Why is he here?”
“Above my pay grade, sugar. I just do what I’m told, and I was told to keep you busy this morning.”
“Jesus Christ!” she exploded. “Why didn’t someone just call me and tell me not to come in? Besides, why would Madsen be here? We don’t have anything going on as far as I can tell. And what’s it got to do with me?”
“Oh, there’s always stuff beneath the surface. And I’m afraid Madsen’s here to see you. He wants to talk to you about Gunnison’s death.”
“Absolutely not!” Her voice was rising, bordering on incipient hysteria, and she didn’t care. “I know all I need to know. Archer shot him and he died. Case closed, story ended.”
“Well, he must have some reason for coming all this way to talk to you. Maybe Malcolm left you money like everyone else has. You know operatives—they pick those of us without family or close friends.” He sounded a little gloomy at the thought, and for a brief moment Sophie’s dried and withered heart offered up a random beat.
“I’ll be your friend, Remy,” she said.
“Damn straight,” he said. “And you can start by seeing Madsen. He’s a stubborn sum’bitch and he won’t leave until he does what he came for. And Bishop wants him gone. Can’t have two chiefs in the same tribe, not with wild Indians like the rest of us.
“Your racial sensitivity is impressive,” she said in a caustic voice. “But this little Indian is going back to her office and locking the pocket doors so no one can bother me.”
“You think there’s a creature in this house that can’t pick any lock made? Even the cat could probably figure it out,” Remy scoffed.
“Then I’ll barricade it,” she shot back. “And don’t forget I’ve still got a gun. I’ve killed before and I can do it again.”
“You’re going to shoot Peter Madsen?” Remy emitted a hoot of laughter. “I’d like to see you try.”
She shook her head. “I might shoot you instead.”
For a moment he looked uncertain, and then he pushed his gorgeous curly hair away from his classical face, laughing. “I know you’re a crack shot, darlin’.”
“I didn’t say it would be an accident,” she said demurely. “My coffee’s getting cold and I have creatures to kill. Are you going to let me go back to my office or am I going to have to get dangerous with you?”
His grin was charming, she acknowledged that. Just as she acknowledged that it didn’t work on her. He glanced down at his watch, an impressive Rolex that looked almost real. “I give up. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”
“What were you supposed to do, keep me here until Peter Madsen was ready to see me?”
Remy shrugged. “Not exactly, cher.” He moved out of the way, bowing extravagantly. “Enjoy yourself, sugar.”
She made a derisive noise, stopped as she passed him to give him a kiss on his cheek, and headed out the door, her heart hammering. It wasn’t Peter Madsen’s fault that he had to be the one to tell her Malcolm was gone, but he’d been responsible for taking her last few minutes with him away from her, and she’d never forgive him for that. If he thought she was willing to see him, then he was in for a major disappointment.
But the hall was empty except for one of the guards standing between the front door and the closed pocket doors to her office. “Hey, Alphonse,” she said. “Have you seen Peter Madsen around? I don’t want to run into him.”
“Madsen, Miss Jordan? He’s not here. At least, not that I know of.”
Sophie frowned. Alphonse would never lie to her, but if Madsen was in town, he would most certainly know it. This odd day was getting even odder, and she didn’t like it. “I must have misunderstood,” she said, sliding one of the pocket doors open. “I’m going to lock the doors, just in case. I’ve got a lot of work and I don’t want anyone disturbing me.”
Alphonse grinned. “I don’t know how you can play that game. I couldn’t get past the first level, and I’ve been gaming most of my life. You haven’t been near a machine in years.”
“Ah, but I’ve got a lot of rage to get rid of,” she said. “Thanks, Alphonse.” She stepped into the room and slid the doors shut again, turning the lock. She looked to either side of her, wondering if there was anything she could use to block the entrance, when the unmistakable sound of her game came to her ears. It was muffled, as if coming through someone’s earphones, and she turned around slowly.
Malcolm sat in her chair, his gorgeous green eyes trained on the screen, his hands busy with her controller, not even bothering to glance up at her. He was dressed casually in a loose shirt and presumably jeans, and his left arm was in a sling. It didn’t even seem to be slowing him down.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise—she’d known deep down somewhere he wasn’t dead. But fo
r some reason a wave of dizziness had washed over her, and she swayed slightly, putting a surreptitious hand behind her to steady herself against the locked doors, as she tried to gather her shocked senses.
She could hear the muffled music that signaled the end of one stage and the death of one more evil boss, and then he deigned to look up. He’d known she was there all along, of course. He would have known she was there if he’d been comatose. Committee agents were just that good.
She considered her options. Her favorite, bursting into noisy sobs of relief, was rejected immediately. Dropping to the floor in a dead faint would give her a little time to get used to this miraculous return from the dead and decide how to respond, but she was already past the first rush of shock and joy and well into rage at grieving for him, aching for him. If she had her gun with her she could shoot him, but that was back at her apartment in the French Quarter.
She couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t involve screaming rage and wild tears, so she said nothing, simply leaned back against the door. She’d set the three locks—she wouldn’t be able to make a fast escape, and she suspected he wasn’t about to let her walk out.
He took off the headphones and set them on the desk, and his eyes met hers, and she had no idea what he was thinking. Nothing had changed. “I would have thought you’d be on level four by now,” he said.
Okay. “I only started it on Monday. I had to get through Dark Souls One and Dark Souls Two first.” Her voice was the tiniest bit shaky, but most people would never notice. Malcolm would.
“I finished it in two days.”
“Of course you did. Did you rise from the grave just to tell me how good you are at video games?”
He had the fucking gall to look faintly amused. “Madsen said you didn’t believe him.”
She realized with sudden shock that deep down inside she really had believed him, and she’d spent untold reserves of energy to keep her state of denial. Suddenly she no longer needed to do so—he was really there, and she felt weak.
Yes, and she was going to pass out in front of him? Not in this lifetime or any other. “It seemed too good to be true,” she said calmly.
He laughed. “That’s pretty harsh for the woman who loves me.”
Shit, he remembers. Of course he does—he probably never forgets a thing. “I was drunk,” she said.
“No you weren’t. And you almost got killed trying to save my ass.”
“Then we’re even. You took a bullet for me.”
He shrugged, and then winced. He looked thinner, a little older, and she remembered the gaping wound in his chest. It would have taken time for him to recover from something like that, and he looked like he wasn’t quite there yet.
“Well, if you came by to tell me you’re alive, then thank you very much and you can go.” She took a sip of the coffee in her hand. It was cool by now, but she could hardly taste it. At least she looked nonchalant.
He pushed the chair back from the desk and rose, and she’d forgotten how tall and lean he was. How he moved with such feline grace. How he stalked toward her, but she wasn’t going to back away from him, wasn’t going to show any reaction at all. In fact, she took a couple of steps away from the door. She didn’t need it to hold her up—she could do this, she knew she could. She’d been living a lie for the past three months, ever since she’d left the island, and she should have no problem keeping it up.
He came right up to her, so close she could feel the heat from his body. His shirt was open at the neck, and she could see the fine-grained skin, the place where she’d bit him when he’d been driving into her, both of them covered with sweat and shaking with love and lust. At least on her part. It had just been temporary lust on his. Too bad neither of her emotions had proved temporary.
“Is Peter Madsen really here?” she asked after a long silence while he just stood there, looking at her.
“In New Orleans? Hell, no. He’s afraid of you. Besides, he didn’t have anything to do here.”
She almost wanted to smile, but there was nothing to smile about. She’d been tricked, her stupid emotions mocked. “He has good reason to be afraid. What about you?”
He considered for a long moment, then shook his head. “No, you don’t scare me.”
Annoyance was building inside her, something she welcomed, something that would drive out her desperate need to throw herself into his arms and weep on his chest. “No, I mean do you have anything to do here, or is this merely a social visit? Your way of gloating.”
“What would I be gloating about?”
Over the fact that she loved him and he didn’t care. She remembered those words too. “Cheating death one more time. Though I imagine that’s old hat for you by now. You probably don’t even think you’re mortal.”
“I’m mortal,” he said. “I figure most of my nine lives have run out. Better to pack it in than to tempt fate.”
“So you’ve come by to announce your retirement? Lovely. I’ll get you a gold watch. I can afford one—Peter Madsen decided to give me back pay.”
“I know.”
They were two simple words, but just like that she knew the truth. “It was your idea, wasn’t it?” she said in an accusing voice, like he’d committed a heinous crime.
“It might have been.”
More sympathy from the devil. She blew it off. “Then I’ll definitely get you that gold watch. Anything else? I have work to do.” Monsters to kill, she thought. She was going to make the “Big Bad” in the video game Malcolm.
“No, I think that’s it,” he said, moving past her and heading toward the door without even touching her. She watched him go, her mouth agape in astonishment.
“You came all the way from England just to tell me that?” she demanded.
He turned to look at her. “Yup. How long will it take you to get packed?”
She just stared at him like an idiot. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, how long will it take you to get packed? I bought a midsized SUV this morning and it’s already loaded. I hope you pack light—there’s not much space left.”
She felt fury and confusion bubble up. “And why should I be packing at all? Where do you think I’d want to go?”
“I figured we’d check out Oregon first—Remy said you had an interest in seeing it. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try other places until we find something that feels right.”
She felt dizzy, like Alice down the rabbit hole. “Why in God’s name do you think I would go anywhere with you?” Her voice had risen just a bit, and she wondered how many people were out there with their ears to the door. Probably none—the entire house had a better surveillance system than Archer’s, and they were probably all upstairs watching on the closed-circuit TV.
“Because you love me,” he said impatiently. “Remember?”
“I remember. I got over it.” She was cold, shaking, but she wasn’t going to let him see it.
His smile was absolutely dazzling, a smile she’d never seen from him before. “No, you didn’t. But I got over my severe case of head up my ass and came back to get you because whether I like it or not, I love you too. Now get packed. I want to get out of town before they start another damned parade.”
For a moment she didn’t move. He didn’t mean it, he couldn’t. This was just a game, a way to toy with her . . . But he wasn’t Archer. He was Mal, and he was absolutely serious, despite the unexpected, lighthearted expression in his face. “And you expect me to come with you, just like that?” she said in a dangerous voice, afraid to believe him, afraid to love him, suddenly afraid of everything when she’d always been fearless.
“Just like that,” he agreed in a soft voice.
Now he was showing her sweetness. Now he was opening up when she had to go through his death for that dubious pleasure. Where was her gun when she needed it? she thought, trying to summon her rage. She’d been so miserable, for so long, and none of it had been necessary if he actually loved her.
The
gun was where it belonged, locked up and out of the way. She looked at the man she loved. “You’re a rat bastard,” she said in a shaky voice that sounded suspiciously like love.
“I’m the one who told you that.”
“So you did.” She took a step, coming right up to him, then reached up and grabbed his long hair in her fist, yanking his head down so that she could put her mouth against his in a rough, claiming kiss. He kissed her back, and her entire body was humming with it, with love and lust and joy and fear. She could do this. She could love him. She didn’t have to be afraid.
When she finally pulled back he was grinning at her. “Running out of time here, sweetheart,” he said.
“It’ll take me five minutes,” she said, knowing she had stupid tears in her eyes. “Don’t leave without me.”
“Never,” he said. And she believed him.
About the Author
Bestselling author Anne Stuart is a master of romance, a winner of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award, and a forty-year veteran of the publishing business. Her first novel was Barrett’s Hill, a Gothic romance published when Anne was just twenty-five. Since then, she’s written romances in nearly every subgenre, from Regency and historical to paranormal and suspense.
Anne speaks all over the country and has been featured on Entertainment Tonight as well as in Vogue, People, USA Today, Woman’s Day, and many other national newspapers and magazines.
She lives with her husband by a lake in northern Vermont, where she enjoys an empty nest, fabulous grandchildren, and overacting in local theater. She has so many books she still wants to write that she plans to live forever.
