by Anne Stuart
Elena set the food on the table—thick, crusty chicken sandwiches, mugs of steaming coffee, a plate of mangoes. There were also two pairs of Archer’s unending supply of Ray-Bans. “The sun is too bright this time of day,” Elena said.
Mal reached for the sunglasses, and for a moment Sophie was fixated on his hand. Had she ever looked at them before? He had long, elegant fingers and strong, beautiful hands. Damn it. He looked up at Elena and smiled with such genuine sweetness that it felt like a punch in the stomach. “Gracias, Elena.”
Elena was far from immune. Her cheeks flushed pink with pleasure. “De nada, señor. Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re fine,” Mal said, not bothering to check with Sophie.
She waited until Elena was gone. “Another member of your fan club?”
“Put on your sunglasses,” he said, tossing them to her. She made no effort to catch them, and they landed in her lap. He reached for his mug of coffee. “Put them on or I’ll put them on for you.” It was gently spoken, but it was a threat, and she wasn’t about to give him the excuse to touch her ever again.
She put them on, cutting the glare. They were some protection—not from the sun, but from him, and she preferred having his eyes covered as well. They were far too acute when they fell on her. “So what do you expect me to do when Archer comes home? Am I supposed to simper and fall all over you? Be rendered silent and in awe over your massive . . . skills?”
He actually laughed at that, setting off another inexplicable reaction inside her. “Do anything you fucking please. I have a little suggestion for you, though.”
“I’m sure you do.” She took a sip of her coffee and felt the warm caffeine slide down to her nerve endings. Not the liquid ambrosia of Mal’s French press masterpiece, but close enough to renew her flagging will.
“You might try to remember this place is bugged just about everywhere.”
She almost spat the coffee out before she stared at him, stricken. “You idiot! Why didn’t you remind me?”
He was leaning back in his hair, surveying one sandwich with interest. “You were clearly too distracted by my massive . . . skills”—he echoed her suggestive pause—“to think about such things. Fortunately a good fuck doesn’t turn me into a mindless idiot. I pulled the wire this morning.”
Mindless idiot? She looked at him, deceptively calm. “You think you’re improving matters by trying to drive me into a murderous rage?” She wasn’t sure whether to be furious or flattered by the “good fuck.”
“I’m not trying to improve matters.”
“Good point.” Elena had brought out a sharp knife for the mango slices, and Sophie wondered if she would have any chance of getting it and burying it in his thigh.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mal said, moving the knife out of her reach.
“Then stop pissing me off.” It was a benevolent term for the anger that suffused her, but he didn’t seem to care.
“You’re better that way,” he said. “More alert. As long as you’re angry, you’re more likely to stay alive.”
“And exactly why do you care?”
He appeared struck by the thought. “Actually, I’m not sure. Maybe things would be easier if you were dead.” He gave her a cynical version of the sweet smile he’d given Elena, his eyes unreadable behind the dark lenses. “Carry on.”
She took a bite out of her sandwich, wishing she were biting his jugular. “Fuck you.”
“You should have said that earlier—we could have stayed down at the boathouse. I don’t suppose we have time to go back . . . ?” He looked at his watch suggestively.
“I . . .”
“Yes, I know, you hate me. Good for you. Now smile, my pretty little assassin. Your husband has returned.”
She felt the color drain her face, and she set down the half-eaten sandwich, her bizarre appetite, which had unexpectedly returned, vanishing once more at the sound of Archer’s loud laugh echoing from the living room. She barely had time to roll away from the table when the man who was technically her husband strode out onto the terrace, Rachel on his arm.
“I wondered where you two had gotten off to,” he said cheerfully, his dark eyes glittering. “I was thinking . . . oh, my!” He stopped midsentence, staring at them. Sophie reached for her coffee again, not because she wanted any, but for something to do. Her hand shook slightly and Mal reached over and caught her other one. Archer would be sure to notice.
“Did you solve your problem up-island?” Mal asked lazily, leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hand drifting over hers, his fingers touching, stroking, caressing. Beautiful hands, Sophie thought, closing her eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses.
Archer’s eyes were bright with malicious delight. “Looks like all my problems were solved.” He reached over Sophie’s shoulder to take the untouched half of her sandwich, and he deliberately brushed his body against hers. She could smell his sweat, and her stomach roiled.
Archer moved around the table, watching them both closely, biting into the sandwich with his strong white teeth. “I can see you two have been busy,” he said cheerfully. “Is that a love bite I see on your neck, Sophie, baby?”
Before she could stop herself, Sophie reached up to touch her neck, instinctively knowing just where the mark lay, where Mal’s mouth had been, where she’d felt the sting of his teeth as he’d thrust into her. She couldn’t help it—color flooded her face. “I’m feeling tired, Archer. I think I’d like to go back to my room.”
Archer looked at her, then to Mal, then back to her again, and there was no wiping the self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I’ll call Joe. It looks as if you’ve had quite the workout, my darling. Get some rest. I’ll be up later to check on you.”
At that point she almost threw up. She put the empty coffee mug down, careful not to look at Mal. “Don’t worry about me, Archer. I’ll be fine in time for dinner.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. You wouldn’t want to wear yourself out with all this . . . socializing. You spend the evening in your room, having a quiet dinner, and don’t let any of us bother you.”
Don’t let Archer bother her? That was an unlikely scenario—she couldn’t fight back if she didn’t want him to know that she wasn’t crippled.
“I’ll bring her back down if she wants to come,” Mal said, essentially countermanding Archer’s order. Sophie held her breath, waiting for the explosion, and Archer’s eyes were suspiciously hard.
But Mal wasn’t budging. She was a chew toy caught between two attack dogs, and neither of them really wanted her. They would simply rip her apart before they let the other one have her. She could already feel her insides begin to tear.
“Ready to go upstairs, Miss Sophie?” Joe said, appearing at her side.
Archer and Mal were watching her, and she had no idea what they expected her to say. The least she could do was confound them. “A nap is an excellent idea, Archer. Thank you. And there’s no need for you to join me—Joe can bring me back down. Or Mal.” She said his name deliberately, to gauge Archer’s reaction.
“We’ll see,” Archer said pleasantly, but it didn’t sound promising.
Chapter Fourteen
“So you fucked my wife,” Archer said.
He’d waited until Sophie was gone—Mal could give him that much. Not that he’d done so out of regard for Sophie. There was little doubt he had plans for his wife, and they wouldn’t be pleasant.
Mal shrugged, glancing out over the swimming pool to the sea beyond. He should leave well enough alone—he’d done what Archer had wanted. The episode should be over.
He heard the drag of the chair as Archer sat down across from him, the sound scraping across his nerves. “I’m glad you followed my suggestion,” Archer said. “Now tell me all about it.”
He could still feel her warm, supple skin, her arms around his neck, hear the quiet, choked sounds she made. He could still see the tears on her face. “I thought it was an order, no
t a suggestion.”
“Oh, hell no! You mistook me—I wouldn’t think of ordering a guest to do anything. I merely thought it might provide some distraction. From the look of that mark on her neck, it looks like it did the job.”
“What can I say? She likes it rough.” He was the world’s biggest shit, worse than Archer MacDonald, because he liked thinking of his mark on her body. He wished she’d left her mark on him.
No, I’m not worse than Archer MacDonald, he thought, as Archer’s face lit up in avid delight. But I’m no fucking hero.
“That’s something new,” Archer said cheerfully, finishing Sophie’s sandwich with gusto. “It might almost make up for her lack of movement downstairs. Tell me, how did you handle it? Did you . . . ?”
“I think I’ll go for a swim,” Mal said calmly. Yes, he was supposed to kill Archer MacDonald, and he’d take untold pleasure in it, but he had to get to the source of RU48 first. Only then could he take his time. He’d never enjoyed killing—he’d simply done what he had to do without thinking about moral consequences. Everyone he’d killed had been some kind of monster, or the henchman of a monster, and there had been no room for emotion.
For the first time there was going to be emotion, a savage pleasure, in ending a man’s life. He didn’t like his sudden, furious need. It was a slippery slope, and he didn’t want to go there, no matter how much he hated the man across from him.
It didn’t matter, though—it was too late. He’d crossed a line somewhere, and Archer was no longer just a job. Mal was going to make it hurt.
“You disappoint me,” Archer said petulantly. “I at least expected some juicy details, man to man.”
What he’d expected was surveillance film, but he was going to be disappointed. “Sorry,” Mal said, making it clear he wasn’t feeling the slightest bit sorry. He rose, pulling off his shirt.
Archer laughed. “So you don’t fuck and tell? I can respect that. I’ll have a nice, quiet afternoon with my wife. I’m looking forward to seeing if Sophie learned any new tricks. I can just . . .”
“No.”
Archer looked startled. “What do you mean, no? She’s my wife. I loaned her to you, I didn’t give her away. As a matter of fact, I look on this as a onetime deal, and I intend . . .”
“No,” Mal said, his calm voice belying the rage that filled him. “You offered her to me and I took her. She’s mine for as long as I’m here. I don’t like sloppy seconds.” He had no idea whether this was going to work or not, he just knew he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. If he had to, he’d kill Archer there and then—to hell with the Pixiedust.
There was a long, tense silence. Archer was still seated, seemingly at ease, but Mal could sense the sudden strain of violence in the air, and he didn’t give a shit. What the fuck was wrong with him?
Then he almost laughed. He was ready to do what Sophie had done three years ago—throw everything away because of Archer MacDonald. Granted, he was motivated by a primal hatred, but there was still an ugly similarity. Archer knew how to get to people in any way he could.
And Mal did laugh. “You wouldn’t deny me, would you, Archer? You’ve been so intent on being the perfect host.”
Archer’s dangerously still face relaxed into an easy grin. “Of course. There’ll be plenty of time once we’ve concluded our business and you’re on your way.”
“Plenty of time,” Mal agreed companionably. “In the meantime, feel like a swim?”
“Certainly,” Archer said promptly. “We needn’t bother with suits. Tell me, did you use a condom? Surely that’s a reasonable question from an anxious husband.”
It was a challenge—the motive behind a sudden urge for nude bathing was obvious. Too bad Archer was going to feel inadequate. “Uncertainty makes life so much more interesting, don’t you think?” Mal said, unzipping his jeans and dropping them on the terrace. “Coming?”
Archer surveyed him, not bothering to hide his curiosity, and his mouth tightened in annoyance. “My, my. It’s probably a good thing my wife is numb from the waist down. I’m not sure she’d find that thing comfortable.”
Typical of Archer to start a conversation about a man’s dick. “Do you have a tape measure?” Mal drawled.
Archer laughed, all signs of irritation vanishing. “I wouldn’t bother. I know when I’m outgunned, so to speak. It’s just a good thing Sophie is so madly in love with me, or I might be jealous. I’m not worried—you’re supposed to be a temporary distraction, something to break the tedium. She and I will have plenty of time to get reacquainted after you leave.”
Archer wasn’t happy, Mal thought. For some reason he wasn’t going to push the issue, but Mal was going to have to watch his back. Not that there would be any change in how he handled things around Archer MacDonald. “A big dick never got in the way of true love,” he said. Except Archer was the big dick, despite what he had between his legs. Mal didn’t even glance at him when Archer dropped trou. There were a lot of ways to measure a man, and the size of his dick was one of the least reliable. Setting his sunglasses on the table, Mal started toward the surf, bypassing the warm pool. Wading out, he dove through the first big wave, slicing through the salt water with strong strokes. He needed to get clean, let the clear gulf water wash away his guilt. Wash away the dirty feeling Archer always left him with. He needed to rid himself of any trace of Sophie and what they’d done together in the boathouse. He just didn’t want to.
By the time Archer joined him he had two naked women with him—Rachel of the plastic tits and someone Mal pretended not to remember, a wannabe actress with the name of Kirsty. He ignored them, even though he could see Archer giving Kirsty whispered instructions, and Mal could swim farther, longer, than any of them could. When Kirsty let the waves knock her lithe body against his, reaching between his legs, he simply swam out even farther. He’d been a competitive swimmer in college, he’d crossed the English Channel seven times in the dark as part of his training, he was strong enough to withstand riptides and deadly currents. In fact, he’d figured his best way off the island would probably be to swim—the coast of Mexico was only twenty-seven miles away, and remarkably free of dangerous tides except during hurricane season. He should have no problem.
He just hadn’t counted on carrying a woman with him.
At least she could kick, he thought as he tread water out beyond the swells, his shin still aching a bit from one of Sophie’s own kicks. His best bet would be to bring a tether with him when she got too exhausted to swim anymore. Whether he liked it or not, he wasn’t going to leave her on this island, no matter what she’d done. He’d come to that conclusion an hour ago, a day ago, the first time he saw her. It didn’t matter what the smart thing to do was, it didn’t matter whether he could trust her. Hell, he didn’t trust anyone.
But he’d bring her out with him. Because.
Archer and the women weren’t making any attempt at joining him out in the deep, and he floated there, looking at the wide stone house in the distance. What was Sophie doing? Probably doing her best to scrub every trace of him from her skin, from inside her body. He remembered the look on her face when she came, the soft, hitching sound of her breath. She should know it wasn’t going to do any good—she could never wash him away. This game was far from over.
He waited until Archer gave up and headed back to the terrace with his women, waited until the shadows grew deeper and lights began to come on. Sophie’s windows didn’t look out over the ocean—she’d have to be out on the terrace to see him, but he knew she was there, watching. What was she thinking about? Probably ways to dismember him. He’d have to watch her—her emotions were raw after their encounter in the boathouse. Someone had made a major mistake in recruiting her. She was strong, inventive, able to withstand years of abuse, but she was also too human, and it was too easy to prey on her emotions. Her misguided passion for a waste of oxygen like Archer MacDonald had put her into this mess, and her reactions to Mal were fucking her up even further. He’d
recognized it and acted upon it, because humanity and mercy weren’t in his vocabulary. And because he’d wanted her. He’d take her down if he had to, and he could do it without a qualm.
It remained to be seen how she reacted after she calmed down. So they fucked—it wasn’t as if it was the first time for her, and she’d wanted it as much as he had. Scrap that—for some reason it had seemed as if he’d never wanted anyone as much in his entire life.
Rules didn’t apply in this business. He wouldn’t have raped her, but he knew he wouldn’t have to. He still might have to kill her—would she prefer death before dishonor? He let out a humorless laugh, floating on the swells, feeling his body being drawn out deeper and deeper.
What if he just let go? Forget about Sophie, let the current take him, stop trying to control a hard, vicious life full of betrayal and murder and despair? He knew the currents in the area—he’d studied them during those weeks in New Orleans, just in case he had to make a swim for it. If he did, he’d need to leave from the west side of the island, near the old sugar mill, and head toward the mainland if he were to have any chance of making it. If he headed north toward the U.S., he’d run into the Coast Guard and drug runners. East was Europe, and that wasn’t about to happen no matter how good a swimmer he was. And heading farther south, the way he was going, would get him into stronger riptides, ones he couldn’t fight against.
He turned in the water, looking out over the endless horizon. Next stop would be the Yucatán Peninsula if he went straight—some six-hundred-plus miles. He’d never make it, and he wasn’t sure he gave a damn. But he couldn’t leave Sophie behind, even if it was the smart thing to do.
She’d probably laugh if he told her that. Those warm brown eyes would grow hard with distrust, and he wasn’t in the mood to convince her when even he wasn’t sure why he wasn’t ready to ditch her. He just knew he couldn’t.