by Anne Stuart
“And you think Archer always gets what he wants?” he countered softly.
He saw the slight flicker in her eyes as she digested the fact that he was armed. She pretended to ignore it. “You could strangle me and say it was rough sex. Archer would love that.”
“But then I’d have to fuck you.”
The words were out in the room like a physical thing between them, and he could feel his dick getting hard. Death had never been a turn-on for him, but the thought of screwing Sophie Jordan was enough to overshadow the discussion of murder.
She wrinkled her nose in disdain. “On second thought I’d rather drown.”
“I don’t know that I’m giving you a choice in the matter.”
She was looking at him out of those warm, dark eyes. That was another tell of hers, one he didn’t bother to point out to her. Those pansy-brown eyes beneath the dark, arched brows gave a lot away, and that was always the hardest thing to control. He was doing his best to keep the barriers of distrust and contempt a powerful wall between them, but if she stopped thinking about herself and the mess she’d made—if she really looked at him closely—she’d probably realize she was safe. He didn’t kill for pleasure, and he avoided collateral damage whenever he possibly could. Not that she was collateral damage, he reminded himself as his eyes drifted over her. She was a traitor, a royal fuck-up, and by the standards of the Committee she deserved everything she got.
He shrugged. “I think I’ll let you live for the time being.”
Her face showed no reaction. “Are you sure that’s wise? After all, maybe I really am still desperately in love with Archer. If I told him about you, it could get me back in his good graces.”
“You trying to talk me into it?”
He could see the way her mind was working. She was considering whether she should egg him on into trying, evaluating her chances of success. Since he’d just taken her down in hand-to-hand, and she had no other weapons at the moment, it would be a waste of time. Apparently she realized it too, so she shook her head. “I wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your redundant mission by having to explain my dead body.”
“Redundant?” he echoed.
“You’re not going to kill him. I am. Then, if you’re really butt-hurt about the whole thing, you can always kill me and take the credit.”
He wanted to smile. She didn’t give an inch. “It’s a thought.”
“We’ll see who gets to him first.” She slid off the bed, her body strong, fluid, moving past him, almost daring him to touch her. And he wanted to, so damn badly.
But he didn’t. He watched her as she strolled toward the French doors, silhouetted against the coming dawn. The power was still off, so she could make it back to her room without being observed, but it could come back on at any time, and he didn’t want her caught walking out of his bedroom. That wouldn’t be good for either of them. She paused, looking back over her shoulder, and her smile was deliberately seductive. “May the best man win.”
She was gone.
He was hard. It was as if his body had been given permission to react to her once she was out of reach, and he gave a silent laugh. He didn’t like complications, but he had the suspicion he was going to enjoy this one. There was even a good chance she’d get to MacDonald before he did—she fought hard and didn’t give in.
He’d have a bruise on his side from her knee, and he glanced down at the bite mark on his upper arm. Shit. It looked like just what it was, and he’d already gone into the ocean with Archer and his bimbo without a shirt on. The sudden appearance of a bite on his body would require explanation, and he could think of no simple answer. It could easily pass for the aftermath of rough sex, but Archer would know if anyone on the island had been in Mal’s bed. He could throw Sophie under the bus, say he’d done what Archer, the sick bastard, had asked, but he needed time to decide how he was going to handle that, how he was going to turn it to his advantage.
When he’d come upstairs he was playing the full drunk, both to fool Archer and to convince Sophie he’d finished her doctored drink instead of silently pouring it into his linen napkin and dropping it under the table while Archer distracted her. He’d bumped around in the room, broken things in his subterfuge, which would easily explain any bruises. It wouldn’t explain a bite mark.
He rose and went to the closet, a grin on his face as he remembered her hiding there, foolish enough to think she could get away with it. Hauling out his suitcase, he dumped it on the rumpled bed, unlocked it, and reached into the hidden compartment for the zip knife. He knew how to use it—he’d dug bullets out of his own flesh with it, cut throats, done worse with such a small blade. He knew how to transform a wound. Without any artificial light he was going to have to go by instinct, but he was good at what he did, and he cut into his bicep without blinking, watching the blood slide down his arm. The artwork required patience, a steady hand, and precision, and by the time he was done, the early dawn light was streaming into the bedroom, and he was satisfied with the results. Folding up the knife, he put it back, then climbed into his bed, making sure he smeared his blood on the sheets. He needed an hour of sleep, maybe two, and then he’d be good to go. He closed his eyes, then opened them again with a groan.
The sheets smelled like Sophie. Like she’d smelled when he carried her—gardenias. It was just the faintest hint of the flower, probably in her shampoo, and it was only a trace that lingered in his bed. Hell, it might even be his imagination. His own blood should have overpowered the scent of her.
It didn’t matter—all he could think about was Sophie in his bed.
He should have cut her throat.
Chapter Eleven
Sophie slipped into bed, closing her eyes. She was exhausted, but her adrenaline was pumping, her heart was racing, and she wanted to go and shut herself in the bathroom so that she could pace and think about all this, but Rachel would be up soon, and she had to make everything appear normal. She wasn’t afraid Mal would give her away—he had too much to lose. He wouldn’t know that she would never give him away. Archer’s death was more important to her than her own life, although she wasn’t into noble self-sacrifice, thank you very much. She wanted to dance on that bastard’s grave and then go out and celebrate every damned thing she could—food, sex, freedom.
There was only one problem—sex involved men, and she really didn’t want to get close enough to one to be vulnerable again.
Of course, sex didn’t have to involve men. She’d been adventurous in college, and she was open-minded, but she’d come to the unhappy realization that she just happened to like cock, and substitutes wouldn’t do.
She’d worry about that once she got off the island—there was no one here, absolutely no one she’d let touch her with a ten-foot pole. Particularly not the man next door, who for some goddamned reason had kissed her, though an errant glance at Mal in his snug underwear made her consider that particular measurement. Had he suspected she could walk when he’d done it, or had he been sorry for the poor little crippled girl? Or even worse, was he turned on by the thought of a paraplegic in bed?
She wasn’t going to think about Malcolm Gunnison. He’d do what he was going to do, and she’d make her own plans. Between the two of them, Archer would die, and for now that was good enough.
By the time she woke up it had to be close to noon. The power had come back on sometime while she slept, but the clock by her bed was flashing twelve with annoying regularity. The day was overcast again—unusual past prime hurricane season. She lay perfectly still as she slowly came awake, and then the happenings of the night before hit her with a vengeance, and without realizing it, she said, “Oh, shit!” out loud and very distinctly.
Archer would have someone listening, of course. Or maybe he sat around at night and played the recordings made earlier. Or hell, maybe he just had the surveillance on but no longer bothered to check. After all, she hadn’t done much that was interesting in a long time but roll around her bedroom.
What
ever it was, in the long run it hardly mattered. She’d been terrified of showing any anomalies, but the very normalcy of her life would appear suspicious. And Archer knew perfectly well that Mal’s entrance into their lives had changed things.
She pulled herself out of the bed and into her wheelchair, wincing slightly. Enduring Archer yesterday afternoon had been bad enough—her wild tussle with Mal left her aching all over. She was going to need a hot shower and a couple of Tylenol.
She started toward the bathroom, then caught a glimpse of herself with sudden horror. She looked dusty, disheveled, and her feet were dirty. Holy Christ, she was lucky Rachel hadn’t come traipsing in. Although if she had, she wouldn’t have been able to see much beneath the sheet, thank God. Sophie needed to scrub herself from head to foot, cover up, and get her ass downstairs by hook or by crook. The one thing she wasn’t going to do was stay locked in her room, wondering what Mal was saying or doing.
She didn’t trust him for one moment. Oh, he was Committee, all right—even though she’d been so sure he wasn’t—and he was good. Impressively so, if she had to admit it. He was utterly ruthless, charming, and completely devious, and she didn’t doubt he’d out her to Archer if he thought it would be to his advantage. She needed to keep an eye on him—she couldn’t afford to be blindsided. Things were moving too quickly now—after years of almost stultifying boredom everything had switched to overdrive. And if she didn’t adjust, she’d go down as surely as Archer would.
The hot shower went a long way toward improving her equilibrium. She was washing away Archer’s abuse. She was washing away the feel of Mal’s body as it covered hers, the grip of his arms around her, the touch of his mouth against hers. She needed to be baptized by her own determination, letting nothing get to her.
She dressed, ignoring her bruises, then rolled over to the French doors, taking a deep breath before she pushed them open. For all she knew, Mal would be there, waiting for her, and she hadn’t decided exactly how she was going to deal with him.
It was going to be tricky. It had to be handled like two porcupines making love—very carefully. Not that she wanted to think of Mal in terms of sex, but it was pretty much impossible not to. He wasn’t her type—too lean, too elegant, too subversive. She had always preferred men with broad shoulders and a rough-hewn edge. But type no longer seemed to matter, and if she tried to ignore the fact that her body seemed to respond to his, it would only complicate matters. She’d learned denial was a waste of time—you had to accept the facts, no matter how unpleasant, and get on with it.
The simple fact was that she was attracted to Malcolm Gunnison, whether she liked it or not. Attracted sexually, when she thought that part of her was dead, and attracted to his abilities. After all, he was everything she’d been training to be, and she found his talents slightly dazzling. Admitting it was the first step; knowing she wasn’t going to do a fucking thing about it was the second, more important step. She couldn’t afford to show any vulnerability right now. She couldn’t afford to ever again.
The balcony was empty, the doors to the adjoining room flung open. She listened, but there was no sound of movement from beyond. The camera would be on her until she moved past the outer edge of her door—she’d calculated that years ago—so she moved to the balustrade, looking out over the roiling sea. She saw, to her horror, that most of the household was out on the beach in that storm-tossed mess. One of Archer’s smaller boats must have come loose from its mooring—it was bobbing about in the waves, and they were trying to steady it and drag it onto the sand before it bashed against the rocks at the edge of the long, curving beach.
Bellowing orders, Archer wrestled with one of the ropes, and Mal was by his side, dressed only in rolled-up jeans, a wide white bandage around his bicep. What had he done to himself? And then she remembered the resilience of his skin beneath her teeth as she fought him, and she gave in to an entirely evil laugh. He was going to have a hard time explaining that to Archer.
No one was left in the house. She rolled farther down the balcony, out of range, and stopped by the doorway of his empty room. She was going to have to wash her feet again, but she couldn’t miss this chance. She couldn’t be sure she’d have enough time to get downstairs and reconnoiter, and the beach was too close to the house, but she could certainly finish what she started last night, secure that Mal wouldn’t be lying in wait.
In the light of day she could see where the cameras had been dismantled, roughly—the wiring still sticking from the ceiling and the wall. Why had Archer let him get away with that? It wasn’t as if other people wouldn’t be interested in his pet project. Malcolm might be there to set a trap for Archer—maybe Archer was setting a trap for him. She glanced back at the ocean, but they were still struggling with the boat, the prisoner on the second floor forgotten.
She slipped from the chair, moving into Malcolm’s shaded room like a shadow. He knew she could walk, and he’d left his door open. Of course, he must realize that someone who’d trained with the Committee could easily pick any lock, but the open door seemed almost too good to be true.
She moved quickly and carefully, going through the drawers again, this time with the benefit of sight, searching between the mattress and box spring of the king-size bed, then underneath it. He’d left nothing incriminating behind, but she hadn’t expected he would, at least not in an obvious place. If he had, she would have to assume it was planted. She knew how to search a room swiftly and efficiently, and the last thing she reached for was the suitcase in the back of the closet, hauling it out in triumph.
It was too heavy to be empty, and he’d left it unlocked this time, though when she opened it the expanse of gray fabric revealed nothing. It took her only a moment to find the fake bottom, and she sat back on her heels and stared at the cache of weapons with awe. There were a total of seven handguns of varying brands and sizes. How often would he check his stash? He’d have no reason to—if she took one, there was always the chance he wouldn’t notice. And if he did, what could he do about it?
She took the smallest, a Beretta Bobcat .22 that was a newer model than the one she’d trained with. She didn’t know if a .22 bullet would stop Archer if he were in a rage, but an elephant gun probably wouldn’t either. She was an excellent shot, or she had been, and a .22 between the eyes was just as effective as a .45 Magnum.
There were even extra bullets for the gun, though none for the larger handguns, which surprised her enough to wonder if this cache was actually a trap. It didn’t matter—she needed any kind of help she could get. He couldn’t be sure she was the one who’d taken it—by the time he discovered the gun was missing, there could be any number of people in the household who could have helped themselves to his cache of weapons. She shoved the small gun into one pocket, the extra bullets in the other, looking to see if she might find anything else useful.
The small knife could come in handy, and it would be easily hidden, but she’d didn’t like the intimacy of using a knife on someone, despite her talent for it. She opened the knife anyway. Funny—it looked like the blade was rusty, or no . . . that was more like blood. Mal was not the kind of man who wouldn’t take care of his weapons, and she stared down at the knife curiously. He must have cut someone, and since there was no current uproar, he had to have killed whoever’s blood was on that blade, and recently, before he had time to clean it. She dropped the knife back into the case, closed it, and put it back in the closet where she’d found it, controlling her instinctive shiver. He was most likely to have taken down one of the outside crew, probably when he was prowling around. If he’d killed Marco, her one chance at an ally, she was going to have to kill Malcolm.
She bounded up the two steps and slipped back into her wheelchair, pausing long enough at the edge to look down at the sea. The boat had been beached, though it looked a bit battered, and everyone was standing around talking. She saw with relief that Marco was out there. In fact, everyone she remembered on the island was out there. So who had Malcolm s
tabbed?
Malcolm and Archer were off to one side, talking, and Rachel was flashing her magnificent tits around, Sophie thought with a curl of her lips. They seemed to be deep in conversation. About her? Or had they moved on to more interesting topics?
It didn’t matter. Before she left, she was going to kill Archer MacDonald, and she wasn’t going to let Malcolm Gunnison get in her way. She had to figure out where to shoot Archer, so he’d die slowly and painfully but be unable to come after her. She had enough time to consider her options. She took a deep breath, looking out toward the dark, angry sea and the world that lay beyond it: freedom, and a world without Archer MacDonald.
She headed back into her room. It would be a waste of time to call downstairs when everyone was out on the beach, but sooner or later someone would bring her some food, and she could get Joe to carry her back down. That, or she’d sit at the top of the stairs and yell until someone came to get her.
Until then, there was always War and Peace.
Malcolm resisted the temptation to open Sophie’s door, going straight to his own. He had no idea how she was going to manage the truth that was now uncomfortably between them, and he was looking forward to finding out. Her training, if it had come from Isobel Lambert, the Ice Queen, had to be some of the best, but she’d been under a form of solitary confinement for years. She could still fight—his bruised kidney could attest to that, and she seemed more than capable of carrying off a long-term deception, which impressed him, though he was reluctant to admit it. Would she be able to be around him and not give anything away? The only way for two people to keep a secret was if one of them was dead, and he intended to be very cautious in the following twenty-four hours until he was certain she could handle things.
His grim laugh was silent. As if he wasn’t very cautious when he was on a mission, cautious until it was time to move. Nothing had changed as far as he was concerned. If she couldn’t handle it, if she started acting suspiciously, then he’d have to take her out, and that would probably precipitate everything else. He didn’t have a clear sense of which was more important—killing MacDonald or destroying access to RU48, and his boss Madsen had been similarly vague. He’d do what he could do, as quickly and neatly as possible. In the meantime, he would simply have to watch.