by Anne Stuart
“Call me Archer,” her husband said jovially. “Joe, get a drink for our guest. He prefers his single-malt scotch straight up, no ice, no chaser.”
There was a glint in Gunnison’s green eyes. “You’ve done your homework, I see.”
“I have people who take care of that, and they don’t make mistakes,” Archer said. “It’s rare that I even let anyone on the island. This is my sanctuary, my sacred space, and I hate to let business intrude. You’re a special case, Malcolm.”
There was no missing the guest’s sardonic expression. “I’m honored.”
Archer was in a good mood and not easily offended. “You should be. Let me introduce you to my wife. Sophie, this is Malcolm Gunnison, from England in case you can’t tell. He’s here as a consultant.”
Consultant, Sophie thought derisively. That’s what he calls all of them. She smiled obediently as she raised her hand, but to her shock he took it and brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips against the back. She yanked it away before she could stop herself, then managed a shaky laugh.
Archer had a smug expression on his face. “Old-fashioned, are you, Malcolm? You know here in the colonies we don’t go around kissing hands anymore. In fact, I’m not very fond of anyone kissing my wife.”
“I can see why,” Mal said, his eyes still on her for a moment, and for the third time a shiver ran down her spine. Then he turned his attention to Archer. “As for the colonies, we lost them long ago. However, I wasn’t aware that this island is part of the United States. I’m afraid that might cause some legal problems for me . . .”
“It’s not,” Archer said. “It’s mine.”
“Some government must lay claim to it. You can’t have your own kingdom anymore.”
“You underestimate me,” Archer said pleasantly. “I can do anything I please. It’s all about exploiting weaknesses. As for governments laying claim, the problem and the blessing is that too many governments think it belongs to them, in particular Cuba and the United States. No one wants to make things difficult just as international relations between the two countries are getting back to normal, so they leave me completely alone, and Mexico has enough problems on its own without bothering about one tiny island.” He smiled at his guest, charming as always. “So you see, it works out very well.”
Malcolm nodded, accepting the drink Joe brought him. Sophie thought she could feel his eyes on her, but when she looked at him she found all his attention on Archer. “Are we going to talk business?” he said.
“There’s no hurry. Have a seat. No one takes their time anymore,” Archer lamented. “Let’s be civilized. My cook has outdone herself tonight, the air is cool, and we have the company of a beautiful woman. We’ll have plenty of time for business.”
Malcolm nodded again, and this time his eyes didn’t brush hers. “I hadn’t realized you were married,” he said slowly.
“I try to keep my personal life private,” Archer said, dropping back down beside her. His weight on the feather cushion made her tilt toward him, but she wasn’t about to put her hands on him to stop herself. He caught her arms with casual possessiveness. “Darling, are you all right?”
Sophie withheld her instinctive growl. So Archer wanted an ornamental idiot for a wife. Why had he brought her downstairs to play this charade in front of the newcomer? Gunnison wasn’t his usual man bait.
But she knew the answer was breathtakingly simple and nothing new: Archer liked games.
“I’m fine,” she said, gazing up at him adoringly. If he wanted a bimbo, she could play one.
Archer slid his arm around her, and she hoped to God he couldn’t feel her skin crawl at his nearness. He nuzzled her neck, and his teeth grazed her carotid artery, an act that years ago had driven her mad with excitement when they’d fucked.
Now she wanted to throw up. She held very still, and then, unbidden, her eyes met Malcolm’s.
He was watching the two of them with an enigmatic expression on his face, and all her Spidey senses went into overdrive. Not from the psychopath nuzzling her neck, but from the elegant stranger. She knew she should turn into Archer’s embrace, but there were limits to her own endurance, so determined to be stoic, she let him kiss her neck and tried to turn her gaze away from the stranger.
She couldn’t. She was caught by his face, mesmerized, though she couldn’t begin to read his thoughts. She had been so good at that in the past, recognizing tells, intuiting people’s thoughts beneath their surface demeanor. For a moment she wondered whether she’d lost that ability during her years of captivity or if this man was particularly opaque. But since she was having no trouble with other people, she decided this man had defenses so powerful even she couldn’t get through them. That meant his training was better than hers.
No wonder she felt the danger. She stopped trying to look away, meeting his gaze steadily as Archer slobbered on her neck. She shivered, which Archer took for encouragement and sexual excitement, and his hand reached down the low front of her dress for her breast, squeezing painfully.
Malcolm’s eyes dropped to that hand, and Sophie pulled back, the strange tie broken. She caught Archer’s delving hand with hers, pulling at it with gentle pressure. “Archer, we have company,” she said plaintively.
He leaned back, and she saw he had a noticeable erection beneath his expensive trousers, and the nausea came back again. She’d assumed he’d never touch her again, at least not sexually, preferring more nubile partners for his particular brand of kink. If he came to her room later she wasn’t sure what she would do.
Archer grinned, his long teeth flashing. “Oh, I think Malcolm recognizes how irresistible you are.”
Malcolm said nothing, and Sophie’s eyes met his for a moment. There was nothing there. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said in that polite British voice.
To Sophie’s relief Archer pushed off the overstuffed sofa, stretching. He had bulked up, she noticed, with wider shoulders and arms. He looked a little top heavy, but still traditionally gorgeous, far more so than Malcolm Gunnison. So what was it about him that made her want to stare at the newcomer?
“Oh, we’re a long-married couple, aren’t we, baby?” Archer said with his winning smile. “Plenty of time for that. I think dinner should be ready.” He glanced down at her. “Sophie, are you joining us?”
What the hell game was he playing? She was sitting on the sofa, her wheelchair out of sight. Did he expect her to flop on the floor and crawl into the vast dining room? Or was Archer expecting her to decline the invitation? But why?
Who knew why Archer did anything? She smiled up at him. “I’m famished,” she said.
A brief expression danced across his guileless blue eyes, and she wondered if he didn’t want Gunnison to know she was crippled. Too bad for Archer’s plans, though she would probably pay for it later.
“Joe,” Archer called, not hesitating, and a moment later Joe appeared, pushing the wheelchair.
Gunnison’s expression didn’t change—he was that good. Any normal human being would have reacted, which told Sophie that their newcomer was far from an average human being, and despite her misgivings she felt a grudging admiration for him. But then, what use would Archer have for someone with normal reactions, like empathy?
Archer put his arm around Gunnison’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “I think you’ll like what I’ve planned. Once we finish dinner Sophie will go to bed—she tires easily, as you can imagine.”
Joe scooped her up carefully and set her in the chair, and she redistributed her long skirts over her legs before pulling up the neckline that Archer had been pawing at. Her husband watched Gunnison carefully. At least that answered one question: He’d wanted to see Gunnison’s reaction to her condition. His lack thereof had established him as someone cold-blooded enough to work with.
Which didn’t mean that Archer was happy with her, but that was no particular problem. She’d learned to disassociate from pain in the first year, when relief was doled out sparingly as part
of Archer’s torment. She could take anything he could do to her.
She rolled herself into the dining room. Archer and Malcolm were already seated, talking in low voices when she came in, and Archer lifted his head to give her his deceptively welcoming smile. “There you are, darling! What took you so long?”
She wanted to snap, “What do you think?” but good sense kept her silent. To her surprise Malcolm immediately rose to his feet when she entered the room.
“Oh, Lord, you Brits have such good manners,” Archer complained good-naturedly, following suit. “I promise you, Sophie doesn’t give a damn if you stand up when she rolls into a room. Do you, darling?”
Sophie maneuvered herself to the remaining place at the table, on Archer’s left, directly across from Malcolm. “It’s very nice,” she murmured, earning herself another bit of displeasure. She lifted her head to look at Malcolm, smiling at him.
No reaction as he reseated himself. Well, screw him, she thought. It wasn’t as if good manners meant he was on her side. He’d probably be just as happy to slip a knife between her ribs as Archer. No, scratch that. Archer would do it with pleasure—Malcolm simply wouldn’t care. He was a man with no emotions, no feelings, as far as she could see.
His advent on the island was still a good thing. Anything that distracted Archer and kept him busy was a benefit. “How long are you staying with us, Mr. Gunnison?” she inquired, reaching for her glass of wine.
Before she realized it Archer had snatched the wineglass from her hand, just as she inhaled the bouquet from a very fine cabernet. “Oh, no, my darling!” he chided, clearly ignoring the fact that he’d ordered her a gin and tonic earlier. “You know you shouldn’t combine the wine with all those painkillers you take. I’ll have to talk to the servants—there shouldn’t have been a wineglass at your place setting, and they should know that by now.”
Hardly, Sophie thought testily, since she hadn’t been at the table for God knew how long. Before she could respond, Malcolm answered her question.
“I expect to be here a week or so,” he said.
Excellent! She couldn’t have asked for better timing. “How lovely,” she said in her breathiest voice, batting her eyes at him. If Archer wanted games, then she could play them.
To her shock she thought she saw a flicker of reaction in those very green eyes of his, one of amusement. A moment later it was gone, and she knew she’d imagined it. Malcolm Gunnison didn’t give a damn what she said or what she did, and he presumably had no sense of humor at all. Few of Archer’s confederates did.
Gunnison’s good manners didn’t extend to dinnertime conversation. He and Archer spent the entire time conferring, leaving Sophie to concentrate on the first steak dinner she’d had in recent memory. It was absolutely worth it—Archer always had the best. The wine would have been lovely with it, but she let go of that particular injury. There were fresh asparagus, crusty rolls, new potatoes, and a lemon tart of such lightness that Sophie could have devoured the entire thing. Her midnight workouts left her with a strong appetite, one she couldn’t assuage with the bland garbage Rachel brought to her. When she got off this fucking island, she was going to eat like a pig.
So she ate slowly, cherishing every bite, pushing the sound of their voices—Archer’s upper-class, Eastern Seaboard drawl mixed with Malcolm’s cool, British accent—into the distance. She was half-aware of the stranger’s voice—there was something inherently delicious about it, the depth and timbre of it, as well as the accent. Too bad he was clearly a cold-blooded criminal, probably a sociopath like her husband.
Then again, he was very good-looking, with those piercing green eyes. It explained the odd pull she felt, the fascination. That, or she’d developed a taste for murderous psychopaths. The thought was depressing.
Not that he was paying any attention to her. She might as well be invisible, though she had little doubt he’d instantly rise when she left the table.
“Are you ready for bed, darling?” Archer interrupted her confusing thoughts. “I know how it tires you to come downstairs, and I wouldn’t want you to overdo.”
So they were ready to get down to the nitty-gritty and didn’t want her around to hear. Fine with her. She’d go upstairs and watch The Walking Dead again, knowing full well that the man—the men—downstairs were a hell of a lot scarier than phony zombies.
She set her face in an expression of weary gratitude. As usual, energy was pumping through her, and she could have stayed up for hours, but she knew the role she had to play. “I hate to admit it,” she said faintly, “but I really do need to retire. I’m sorry to leave you two on your own, but I’m certain you have a lot to talk about.” She began to roll back from the table, wishing she’d thought to tuck some rolls beside her, but then they’d fall out when Joe carried her upstairs. Maybe next time, if there was a next time, she’d wear something with an empire waist so she could tuck extra food inside her bra.
Malcolm rose, and this time Archer joined him, moving to give her a chaste kiss on the forehead. “I won’t join you tonight then,” he said regretfully, and relief flooded her. Not that she had expected him to come up that night—she’d sometimes gone months without seeing him—but sooner or later she was going to pay for her subtle misbehavior with pain, not with sex. Chances were that he’d wait until his guest had left, but she’d already be long gone.
Her room was hot, stuffy, when Joe deposited her back inside, and he went and started the air-conditioning before turning back to her. “Anything I can do for you, missus?” He insisted on calling her that, much as she hated it.
Sophie laughed wryly. “Bring me some more of the lemon tart,” she said, “and maybe a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food to go with it.”
At least Joe wasn’t a man to hide his thoughts or feelings. His mouth widened in a conspiratorial grin. “I can do that. You wouldn’t be able to finish the whole pint of ice cream, though, and the rest would melt.”
“Wanna bet?”
“I’ll send Elena up. Mr. Archer will be too busy with his guest to notice.”
So Joe knew she was under restricted rations too, and he didn’t mind breaking the rules in small ways. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill her if he was ordered to, but he’d be very sad about it for a few days.
Elena arrived by the time she’d stripped off her clothes and pulled her nightgown around her, zombies already streaming. Elena didn’t make the mistake of questioning Sophie’s ability to devour an entire pint of ice cream—after all, she was a woman. And she’d brought up at least half the torte.
Sophie was the prisoner of a psychopath, trapped on an island, in a wheelchair, with criminals and killers all around her. But right now she had zombies and ice cream, and she intended to enjoy every minute of it.
Chapter Four
Mal looked at the man he was going to kill and smiled pleasantly. “She’s quite lovely.”
“My wife?” Archer MacDonald said disingenuously, looking after her departing figure. “She is, isn’t she? She’s had a hard time the last few years since the . . . accident, but she never complains.”
“Accident?” All this was news to Mal, and he cursed the faulty intel that had sent him into this situation half-blind, though it was no one’s fault but his own. It had been up to him to make sure all the information he had was up to date and correct, and he’d spent the past month in New Orleans working on it. Clearly he hadn’t spent long enough, but he’d been itching to get to work.
For a moment he wondered whether Archer would change the subject, but eventually the man grimaced, poured a little more scotch into his own glass and into Mal’s, and set the bottle back on the table. “She was shot by accident. Someone was trying to kill me,” he said.
Mal raised his eyebrows. He didn’t bother asking why—both of them were aware of Archer’s true nature and his business interests. He had enemies by the score. “How did they get so close?”
“I’d overestimated how safe I was here on the island. It hasn�
��t happened again.”
“On the island?” Mal asked. “How could someone get here without you knowing?”
“Oh, he was someone I knew. One of my bodyguards, if you must know; a man I trusted with my life and my wife. Fortunately he was a piss-poor shot when rattled, and his bullet hit Sophie. Or unfortunately,” he added quickly.
Archer’s honesty would go only so far. The devoted husband act was just that, an act, and Mal wondered if Sophie realized it. She’d seemed so taken with Archer, as most women were, dazzled by his good looks and easy charm. Though there was that brief look in her dark brown eyes while Archer was chewing on her neck that suggested something more than tacit acceptance, and Malcolm was a man who never accepted anything on face value.
“What happened to the shooter?” Mal said.
“What do you think?”
Mal didn’t bother to consider it. Given what he knew of Archer, he decided there was a good chance the bullet had always been meant for the bride, probably to kill her. Archer would have gotten rid of the shooter because he bungled the job.
But if he wanted her dead, why was she still here, albeit in a wheelchair? Maybe Archer liked having her under his thumb.
“Is she going to recover?” Mal kept his voice casual. In truth, he didn’t care, he just needed to have as much information as possible. She’d looked healthy enough as she snuggled on the sofa with her husband, but looks could be deceiving. He needed to identify and catalog everyone on the island if he was going to do his job and get away safely.
As for Sophie, he had three choices. He could kill her, leave her on the island to fend for herself, or take her with him when he left. She’d lost any claim to the protection of the Committee when she’d betrayed them all by falling in love with Archer MacDonald, and his bosses were agreed that the choice was up to him. There were mitigating circumstances, of course. She’d been too green to be entrusted with a mission like that, but the Committee had a history of harsh retribution. The fact that he hadn’t been ordered to kill her was as close as they came to mercy.