by Anne Stuart
ALSO BY ANNE STUART
ROMANTIC SUSPENSE
THE FIRE SERIES
Consumed by Fire
Driven by Fire
THE ICE SERIES
On Thin Ice
Fire and Ice
Ice Storm
Ice Blue
Cold As Ice
Black Ice
STAND-ALONE TITLES
Into the Fire
Still Lake
The Widow
Shadows at Sunset
Shadow Lover
Ritual Sins
Moonrise
Nightfall
Seen and Not Heard
At the Edge of the Sun
Darkness before Dawn
Escape out of Darkness
The Demon Count’s Daughter
The Demon Count
Demonwood
Cameron’s Landing
Barrett’s Hill
Silver Falls
COLLABORATIONS
Dogs & Goddesses
The Unfortunate Miss Fortunes
ANTHOLOGIES
Burning Bright
Date with a Devil
What Lies Beneath
Night and Day
Valentine Babies
My Secret Admirer
Sisters and Secrets
Summer Love
New Year’s Resolution: Baby
New Year’s Resolution: Husband
One Night with a Rogue
Strangers in the Night
Highland Fling
To Love and to Honor
My Valentine
Silhouette Shadows
ROMANCE
Wild Thing
The Right Man
A Dark and Stormy Night
The Soldier and the Baby
Cinderman
Falling Angel
One More Valentine
Rafe’s Revenge
Heat Lightning
Chasing Trouble
Night of the Phantom
Lazarus Rising
Angel’s Wings
Rancho Diablo
Crazy Like a Fox
Glass Houses
Cry for the Moon
Partners in Crime
Blue Sage
Bewitching Hour
Rocky Road
Made in America #19
Banish Misfortune
Housebound
Museum Piece
Heart’s Ease
Chain of Love
The Fall of Maggie Brown
Winter’s Edge
Catspaw II
Hand in Glove
Catspaw
Tangled Lies
Now You See Him
Special Gifts
Break the Night
Against the Wind
NOVELLAS
Married to It (prequel to Fire and Ice)
Risk the Night
HISTORICALS
SCANDAL AT THE HOUSE OF RUSSELL
Never Kiss a Rake
Never Trust a Pirate
Never Marry a Viscount
THE HOUSE OF ROHAN
The Wicked House of Rohan
Shameless
Breathless
Reckless
Ruthless
STAND-ALONE TITLES
The Devil’s Waltz
Hidden Honor
Lady Fortune
Prince of Magic
Lord of Danger
Prince of Swords
To Love a Dark Lord
Shadow Dance
A Rose at Midnight
The Houseparty
The Spinster and the Rake
Lord Satan’s Bride
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2017 Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503941724
ISBN-10: 1503941728
Cover design by Jason Blackburn
For Jo Beverley—you’d argue that my hero wasn’t heroic enough, and I’d argue back, and we would have had a great time. I miss you. Have fun with all the noble heroes in heaven.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
About the Author
Chapter One
Sophie Jordan lay utterly still in the inky darkness, the cool tile floor beneath her sweating body, as she checked her heart rate. Steady and solid after she’d done two dozen reps in perfect silence. She’d been working herself up slowly over the months—as soon as she started breathing heavily she had to stop. There were no cameras or microphones in her huge bathroom, but she wasn’t sure how sensitive the bugging devices in her bedroom were. For all she knew, they could pick up the sound of her increased respiration.
It was good practice anyway. When you were a prisoner in an armed fortress, silence was your friend. Sophie sat up quickly, fluidly, then rose to her feet once more, going through the training moves she remembered from what seemed like so long ago. She could feel the strength flowing through her, the pleasant pull of her muscles, the ease of her body. She would have given ten years off her life to be able to run outside, beneath the sun or the stars, breathing in fresh air. Instead, she ran in place, her bare feet silent, energy pumping through her body, the walls of the bathroom cool around her in the night air. She was sweating, but she never dared to take a shower afterward—it would raise too many questions. She finished up her workout, going through her cool-down stretches, shoved her sweat-damp hair away from her face, and silently opened the door to her bedroom.
She kept it inky black, no trace of moonlight filtering in. She had no guarantee that Archer’s cameras weren’t temperature sensitive—he could very well be watching the heat signature of her body as she moved back to the big bed. It would be just like her psychotic husband to let her think she was fooling him, fooling everyone, when he knew her secrets all along. After all, he’d done it once before.
She couldn’t let that fear stop her. She had no choice but to put her head down and plow ahead, building strength, biding her time. If it was all another trap, then so be it. He might be able to see her outline, but there was no way he could know how strong she was. Even she wasn’t sure if she was back to her full strength yet—she could only keep training and hope for the best.
Sooner or later, Archer would tire of his cat-and-mouse game. He’d either kill her or let her go, though she wouldn’t place any money on the latter. Archer liked power too much, and he took pleasure in other people’s pain.
She’d done her best to give him his money’s worth.
The sheets were co
ol as she slid beneath them, and she shivered slightly in the air-conditioning. It kept the room a little too cold, but she had no choice—she couldn’t have any windows open if she wanted to keep what little privacy she could get away with, and she’d suffocate without the air.
Her only bit of luck was Archer’s general squeamishness when it came to bathroom matters. Not only did he not want to see her on the toilet—he didn’t want anyone else to either. So at least the bathroom was sacrosanct, and she could move around there all she wanted.
She lay back in the bed, closing her eyes, listening to her heartbeat slowly return to a resting rate. Two more weeks at the most, Sophie thought. Two more weeks and she’d be ready to go. For now she had no choice but to continue her charade.
She’d trained herself to fall asleep instantly, and the next thing she knew someone was drawing aside the curtains, letting the bright, tropical sunshine flood the room. She opened her eyes, watching as the woman moved to the bedside.
“Did you sleep well, Mrs. MacDonald?” Rachel asked, the woman’s classically beautiful face set in unemotional lines as she flipped back the covers to expose Sophie’s motionless legs. Archer liked to surround himself with feminine beauty, and even her de facto nurse could have had a modeling contract. Rachel was close to six feet tall, with endless legs and the best boobs man could buy. Archer had always had a weakness for Barbies.
“The pain kept me awake for a while,” Sophie said in the soft, faintly plaintive voice she’d perfected.
“Did you take your pills?”
“Of course.” The stash of Vicodin was hidden in a hollowed-out section of her mattress. She had learned from her early training to hold on to whatever might make a weapon, and besides that, drugs were always an easy currency.
“I’ll talk to Dr. Corbin—perhaps we might switch you to Percocet if you aren’t getting relief.” Rachel slid her arms beneath Sophie’s limp body and pulled her into a sitting position, managing to twist her back painfully. Rachel was very strong, and she topped Sophie’s height by a good three inches. Sophie had no idea who would win in a fight—Rachel was bigger, but Sophie had the advantage of having been trained. Like Archer, Rachel enjoyed hurting her a little too much when given the chance, and the long-absent Dr. Corbin gave Rachel more than enough opportunity.
At least Sophie didn’t have to worry about the old mob doctor showing up and calling her out. No one cared if she lived or died, and Corbin wasn’t going to fly to Isla Mordita again to see a patient who didn’t matter, whose condition he’d decreed was permanent. Rachel had some sort of medical training—enough to be able to give clumsy injections and painful massages that left Sophie a mass of bruises—but she didn’t know enough to recognize muscle power, particularly since Sophie managed to cover her legs as best she could.
She couldn’t wear long sleeves in such a hot climate, but the muscles in her arms were easily explained away as the result of using a wheelchair, and Archer seemed to accept them as the natural outcome of her condition. Maybe.
There was also a pair of pathetic, bright-pink one-pound weights she’d been allowed, but Sophie ignored them in favor of the heavy tomes provided for her library. The muscles she’d developed were a little too impressive if someone looked closely, but fortunately nobody did.
“It’s a beautiful day, Mrs. MacDonald. Will you be wearing the usual?”
The “usual” was a long, loose-fitting sundress, something that required little effort to put on and covered up any number of secrets. “That would be fine. Just leave everything in the bathroom and I’ll manage myself.”
Rachel let out an annoyed huff. “I don’t know why you refuse to let me help you dress. That’s what I’m here for—to make your life easier.”
Sure you are. Sophie kept a sweet, frail expression plastered to her face. You’re a jailor and a spy, nothing more. “And you’re doing a wonderful job. But I’ve told you—I’m not comfortable with nudity, especially since the . . . accident, and dressing myself is good for me.”
“And I suppose you don’t want help with the shower either? What if you slipped?”
“I haven’t yet.”
With silent disapproval Rachel pulled a deep turquoise sundress out of her closet, along with the expensive underwear Archer had bought for her. There were matching sandals for every dress—the room-sized closet off the bedroom was color-coordinated and packed full. Rachel dumped the clothing in the bathroom, then came back to the bed, sliding her strong arms around Sophie’s limp body and pulling her onto the wheelchair, slamming her against its metal arms as she did so. Sophie didn’t flinch, smiling gratefully as Rachel placed her immobile legs on the footrest. After all these months she still wasn’t sure what would incite Rachel to hurt her. She might like the sound of Sophie’s pain, want more of it. Or she might simply want to break her.
Either way, Sophie wasn’t going to give in to Rachel’s physical taunts. It was one thing to complain about the pain of her nonexistent condition, another to let Rachel win. Besides, Rachel thought she held all the cards and that poor little Sophie was at her mercy. With any luck Sophie would have a chance to show her otherwise before she escaped.
Sophie began rolling toward the huge, specially equipped bathroom and Rachel spoke up. “Your husband is expecting a business acquaintance tonight,” she said. “He said to tell you he hopes you’ll feel well enough to join him for dinner.”
That was something new. The only time she saw her husband was when he made one of his rare visits, and he spent all his time on the first floor of the partially remodeled plantation house. Those expensive changes hadn’t included an elevator, and presumably Sophie was trapped on the second floor, with only the wide, sweeping staircase between her and any kind of freedom. One of the other bedrooms had been finished, and there used to be the constant sound of hammering, the smell of freshly sawed wood filling the air. That noise had stopped recently, but Sophie had no illusions that the remodeling project was finished. The terrace outside her locked French doors was still littered with construction debris, and the last time she’d been taken down to the pool, the cabana had been in the midst of being torn down. There hadn’t been time to fix it.
At least Archer’s grand master suite, the one she’d once shared with him, was on the first floor. She could only hope that at times he forgot about her completely—it would give her an advantage when she was finally ready to make her move. She knew it was a foolish hope on her part—Archer never forgot an injury, never forgot anything, and he had a particular fondness for brutal, complicated revenge.
“Who’s coming?” she asked.
Rachel shrugged. “You know Archer doesn’t volunteer information. Should I tell him you don’t feel up to it?”
Sophie was tempted. The less she saw of Archer, the greater advantage she would have. But Archer didn’t do anything without a good reason, and this mysterious stranger must be someone important if he wanted to show off his handicapped wife. “I can do it,” she said in a wan voice. “I wouldn’t want to let him down.”
It wasn’t the answer Rachel wanted, but she had no excuse to put her hands on her, and retribution would have to come later. “I’ll tell him you said yes, then,” she said. She let her cold eyes run over Sophie’s body in the wheelchair. “If you won’t let me help you, then I’ll go order your breakfast. Unless there’s something else?”
Sophie smiled sweetly, a look that always seemed to leave Rachel unmoved. “I’ll be fine. You do so much for me anyway.”
“It’s my job.”
Sophie didn’t even blink. Rachel’s job was to spy on her and probably fuck her husband. “And you do it so well.”
Rachel cast her a suspicious glance, but Sophie’s face was absolutely innocent. She’d been working on her expression in the mirror of the bathroom, where no cameras could catch her, and she knew she was damned good. All that training had stayed with her, and she’d always been a terrific liar.
“Archer wants you downstairs by six
for drinks. I’ll come up earlier and help you dress . . .”
“I’ll be dressed.”
Rachel let out a little noise of irritation. “And I’ll bring Joe to carry you.”
“Poor Joe,” Sophie said softly. In fact, Joe was one of the few men on Isla Mordita she trusted. He was huge, bald, immensely strong, and genuinely sweet. She’d once seen him kill a man by breaking his neck with his knees, and she knew he was responsible for many more of Archer’s murders. But Joe was always careful and considerate with her, and he disapproved of the way Archer kept her shut away. He wouldn’t actually be an ally when she got out of there, but she hoped he wouldn’t get in her way. She wouldn’t want to kill him. “Tell Archer I’m looking forward to it.”
She didn’t miss Rachel’s expression. Rachel believed Sophie was desperately in love with Archer MacDonald, longing for any sign of attention, and jealous of Rachel’s obvious closeness to him. Sophie had done everything she could to foster that impression.
In fact, last she’d figured out, Archer was sleeping with three different women on his small, private island off the coast of Florida. As far she could tell, though, Rachel reserved her jealousy for Sophie, which was interesting. She must think Sophie was a greater threat than she actually was.
Sophie could have told her the only reason Archer kept her around was to play cat-and-mouse games with her. That, and simple revenge. When he tired of it, he was going to kill her, or send someone to do it. She expected it would be the latter—Archer never wanted to get his hands dirty, and while he took pleasure in his small cruelties, so far he hadn’t cared enough about her to bother himself with her execution. Archer was too fastidious, and blood was so messy. She was just an afterthought, one he’d deal with sooner or later, if she didn’t get out first.
But that didn’t explain why he’d want her downstairs to entertain his mysterious guest. And there was no question that the guest would be mysterious—very few people were allowed on the island—and when they came, she seldom saw them. Archer kept his business dealings away from here, in Miami, in New York, in New Orleans. This was his fortress, his safe house, and he’d managed to keep it a better secret than most nowadays, when information was only a click away, on the darknet, if not through the usual channels.
Isla Mordita had once been the property of a Cuban plantation owner, and the ruins of the old sugar mill stood on one end of the island. She and Archer had sex inside the mill when she’d been stupidly, blindly in love with him. She was past berating herself for her gullible idiocy. That had filled the first year after the so-called accident, when she was confined to the bed, unable to move. By the second year, when she started to get some feeling back in her legs, she’d moved past that, into a plan for escape.