by Anne Stuart
“Is my wife joining us?” Archer demanded lazily, taking a sip of the drink he’d been nursing.
“She said she’d be delighted.” It was a lie, of course. Sophie had looked at him like he was a snake who’d slithered into her room before she remembered she was supposed to be sweet and frail. For some reason he didn’t feel like complicating her life by passing on her lack of enthusiasm for today’s outing. Not without a reason.
Archer looked smug. “She still adores me,” he said, running an admiring eye over Rachel’s deeply bronzed body. “I try to give her the attention she craves, but there’s only so much I can do.”
She hadn’t looked like she was craving attention, but Malcolm didn’t point that out either. This mission depended on Archer believing him—there was no other way he’d survive long enough for Archer’s pet scientist to arrive, but he was going to enjoy killing Archer MacDonald. That in itself was unusual—he didn’t tend to care one way or another about the people he’d been ordered to terminate. For some reason he really hated Sophie MacDonald’s husband.
Mal made a noncommittal sound, reaching for his own drink. It was surprisingly good, but then, it was to be expected with Archer’s lavish tastes. The blend of fresh tropical fruit and the bite of rum were perfect for a hot midday in the tropics, although he had to watch himself. His host had tried to drink him under the table last night, and failed. He was going to have to decide which would fit his operation better—sobriety or a carefully orchestrated drunk.
“You know, you could do me a favor,” Archer said slowly, his eyes never leaving Rachel’s distant, perfect body.
“Could I?”
“You must be bored to death. Chekowsky’s hit a complication and is running a few days behind, and it’s too much trouble to send you back to the mainland. Once I allow someone on Isla Mordita, I don’t let him leave until our business is finished, and we’ve only just begun.”
As a threat it was unnecessary—anybody fool enough to arrive on this island would have no illusions about how dangerous the man was, and Mal wasn’t going to leave until he’d finished his business—all of it. “I’m not easily bored,” he said. “What is it you want?”
Archer turned to him, that charming, well-bred smile on his face. “I’d like you to pay attention to my wife. She hasn’t much of a life, poor darling, and I think having a handsome man flirt with her would cheer her up enormously. I wouldn’t have to spend so much time worrying about her.”
If Archer spent even five seconds thinking about the woman, Mal would be surprised. He kept his face impassive. “What does this paying attention involve?”
“She’s quite pretty, don’t you think?” Archer said.
“Not bad.”
Archer chuckled. “You don’t like to give anything away, do you?”
Mal let out a deliberate, long-suffering sigh. “Tell me what it is you want me to do, Archer, and I’ll be happy to help you out. You want me to fuck your wife?”
Archer didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged. “If you want to go there, yes. She needs distraction. She has no feeling below the waist, and I was never into necrophilia, but if you want to have a go at it, feel free. She’ll do anything I ask her to, and she’s certainly not getting any from me.”
Mal said nothing. For a moment he remembered the scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark where Indiana Jones, when faced with an ominous, sword-wielding giant, simply shrugs and shoots him. Mal would have given anything to be able to just reach over and snap Archer’s neck.
He couldn’t. He had to wait for Archer’s fucking Pixiedust and its inventor.
“Unless you’re not interested in women,” Archer added in a faintly taunting voice. “I had you thoroughly vetted before you got here, but we might have overlooked something. Rachel told me you sent her away.”
“Rachel’s not my type.”
“What about Sophie?”
He thought back to her, to the dark brown eyes that gave away nothing, the mouth that looked soft and tempting. He was a professional—he’d fuck anything he had to in order to complete a mission, and he’d do it well. He could give her what she clearly hadn’t had in years, apparently with her asshole husband’s approval. There was just one little problem. He wanted to.
Taking another sip of his drink, he glanced at his host. What possible benefit could the man find in whoring out his wife? Simply to demean her? Mal would have thought a man like Archer would be possessive to the point of murderous, yet instead he was serving up Sophie as a perk for his guest. Why? Did he expect to watch? And what would that deceptively docile woman do when she heard about her husband’s plans? “So when is it we can expect your pet scientist?”
Archer shrugged. “Delays in science are simply part of the price of admission. Trust me. It’ll be worth it when the compound is finished.”
“So that’s time I spend on this island with nothing to do?”
Archer grinned. “You can always do Rachel. Or Amy for that matter.”
Mal looked at his host for a long moment, then spoke. “I think I’ll do your wife,” he drawled.
Archer’s grin widened, and Mal knew, just knew, that he was thinking of the cameras and microphones he’d seeded throughout the house. Archer had every intention of watching, and probably wanking off to the sight of his wife having sex with someone else.
He really, really wanted to shoot the man. Instead, he smiled faintly, the most Malcolm Gunnison could offer.
“It’s a deal then,” Archer said. “I’m counting on it.”
“What is?” came Sophie MacDonald’s voice from the doorway. She knows how to make an entrance, even in a wheelchair, Mal thought. She would have been taught that when she worked for the Committee, even if her training had been incomplete.
“We’re just making a small wager on when Chekowsky will show up,” Archer said without hesitation. “It might not be till next week.”
Her eyes met his, warm-brown and steady, and Mal breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously she hadn’t heard their discussion. Not even the best operative could cover up a reaction to something like that, and this was the husband she seemed to adore, the man she’d thrown away her career and the trust of her friends for. “And what did you guess, Mr. Gunnison?”
“Mal,” he corrected. “I said in the next couple of days.”
She tossed back her hair and he watched her, allowing himself to observe her in full daylight. Last evening he’d been circumspect, and during his late-night reconnaissance there hadn’t been enough light to see clearly, but now that he seemed to have promised his host that he’d bang his wife, he figured he could look at her all he wanted. She was prettier than he’d realized, even with shapeless hair, and that wide mouth of hers gave him all sorts of nasty thoughts. She was wearing a flowing sundress, the skirt covering her body. “For your sake I hope he’s here sooner,” she said, not meeting his gaze.
“Chekowsky has his own timetable,” Archer advised Mal. “He’ll show up when he’s ready. Sorry for the wait.”
Mal allowed himself a small, feral smile, just for Archer’s sake. “Then I’d better find something to keep me busy,” he said softly.
Archer’s conspiratorial grin was answer enough.
Chapter Six
Sophie was so furious she wanted to throw up. She kept her hands in her lap to disguise their shaking. Eavesdropping was one of the few weapons she had at her disposal, and she used it at every possible moment. So the elegant Malcolm Gunnison thought he was going to do everyone a favor and fuck her, did he? At least it was good to know that Archer still thought she adored him. Keeping that sweet, slightly stupid smile on her face took tremendous effort, but she managed as she rolled up to the table, taking the cup of coffee Mal handed her.
She took a sip, and the blessed bite of Sumatran caffeine almost softened her rage. She wasn’t particularly worried—if she was going to play that she was still in love with her husband, then she wouldn’t be interested in sleeping with someone else, part
icularly if she had no feeling below the waist.
Sex hadn’t even been an issue up to that point. For the first year she’d been in too much pain, and after that she’d lost interest entirely, despite Archer’s malicious temptations. The longer she was celibate the easier it was, and right then she’d rather screw a warthog than any of the damned men on this island.
“Can I get you something to eat?” Mal asked in an offhand voice, but Sophie wasn’t fooled. As a seductive overture it was fairly bland, but he hadn’t offered to do anything for her before, aside from helping her dress. At least his attempts to be charming could be a distraction, and she’d be long gone before push came to shove. There was no way she would go to bed with him, doubtless with Archer watching, just to shore up her cover. The Committee had insisted the operatives be above such qualms, but that was where she’d failed. She’d thought herself in love with Archer, that he loved her in return, and she’d been beating up on herself ever since she realized the truth about him.
She looked up at Mal through her eyelashes. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said in a deliberately dulcet voice. “Just some toast and orange juice.”
His mouth tilted in a faint smile. “You really ought to try some of this fruit creation Archer ordered.”
“Yes, darling,” Archer chimed in. “It’s so good you’ll feel like dancing. If it weren’t for that damned chair, of course.”
Just one of Archer’s usual barbs—he seldom let a conversation pass without reminding her that she was a cripple. She arranged her features into a doleful expression. “Remember I’m not supposed to drink, not on top of all the pain meds I take.”
“What do you take?” Malcolm asked.
She glanced back at Mal. If only he weren’t so different from Archer’s generic handsomeness. In another life, another world, she might even be tempted by Malcolm Gunnison. His green eyes were almost iridescent—she’d never actually seen that color in real life, and his mouth was wickedly distracting. She had no idea why she was so fascinated by him—he wasn’t the most lethal, the most charming, or the most beautiful man that Archer had brought to the island, trotting them in front of her to see if she’d bite.
She’d never been tempted before. But the inescapable and unpleasant fact was that ever since she’d heard her husband solicit Malcolm’s services, a small part of her brain had been trying to come up with an excuse to let it happen.
She was going stir-crazy, and the only surprise was that it hadn’t hit her sooner. She’d never been at the mercy of her hormones in the past—while her sex drive had been healthy, her passion for Archer had been as emotional as it had been physical, blinded as she’d been to Archer’s true nature. She’d seen him as she wanted him to be, not as he was.
Maybe she simply needed to get laid. If she had any sense, the first thing she would do once she got away from here would be to go to a bar and pick up the most gorgeous man she could find to work off the years of frustration. Maybe not conventionally gorgeous, though. Maybe someone who looked a little like Gunnison.
“I don’t have any pills to spare,” she said shortly, reminding herself that Malcolm wasn’t going to be that man.
“I wasn’t asking,” he replied lazily, his green eyes drifting over her. They gave absolutely nothing away. “I’m just curious what kind of pain you’re in.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to tire you out.”
That was enough to shock her. Surely he wasn’t going to come right out and tell her what Archer had suggested?
Apparently not, if Archer’s choking sound was anything to go by. “How do you think you’re likely to do that?” she said in an arch voice, ignoring her husband. “I’m not about to go hiking around the island with you, no matter how bored you are waiting for Archer’s other guests. I take Vicodin and occasionally Percocet. They control the pain and I sleep very well.” Might as well make it clear that she had no idea he’d been scouting her room last night.
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Mal said.
Archer rose, his iron chair scraping on the stone surface. “I’ll leave you two to entertain each other,” he said easily. “I’ve got too much work to do to sit around in this hot sun.”
“I thought you wanted to see me, Archer.” She put a plaintive note in her voice, aware that Malcolm was watching her.
“I wanted you to keep our guest occupied, angel,” he murmured, coming toward her, and she did her absolute best not to stiffen. He sometimes gave her a paternal kiss on the forehead when he was playing games, but if he tried it this time, she was afraid her skin might crawl and give her away.
It was far worse. He put one of his hamlike hands under her chin, tilting up her face, and set his mouth on hers, wet and open, his tongue seeking entrance.
She wanted to bite him. She wanted to throw up in his mouth, and for a moment she was afraid that was exactly what she’d do. She clenched her fists together, hiding them in her skirts, and kissed him back, putting all the enthusiasm she could feign into it.
Archer drew back, his mouth wet, a smug expression on his face. He really did believe she still loved him, still wanted him. He had an impressive brain—there was no denying that—but for some reason he had no trouble accepting the sudden absence of at least thirty points from her IQ. She looked up at him hopefully, knowing her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Tears of rage, but he’d assume it was longing.
“Ah, darling, I miss you in my bed,” he said in a low, suggestive voice.
“I can still take care of you,” she purred, calling his bluff. The only times he’d come to her room were to pick a fight and then take out his frustration, and given her supposed weakness, there was nothing she could do but take the vicious abuse. He’d probably started it in an attempt to find out whether she really was helpless, and quickly discovered he got off on hurting her. She pushed past memories from her mind with an ill-concealed shudder, but with Archer’s ego he probably assumed it was sexual excitement. If he tried, she might just kill him with her bare hands. She could, too. Enough of her training with the Committee remained that killing him would be a simple matter, despite his size and strength.
“Hush,” Archer said. “Malcolm’s been asking all about you. Why don’t you let him say marvelous things to you that will put a smile back on that pretty face?”
Malcolm had said barely anything about her except to question Archer’s plan, but his face was inscrutable. “Go away, Archer,” he said pleasantly. “Sophie and I will have a very good time without you.”
Sophie managed not to snort.
Archer’s bright smile had once dazzled her. “C’mon, Rachel. Let’s leave these two alone to get to know each other.”
With feline grace Rachel rose to her feet, and a moment later they were gone, leaving the terrace empty, silent, awkward. Sophie shifted in the wheelchair as much as she dared, and then her eyes met Mal’s oblique look. “So?” She didn’t bother to hide the challenge in her voice.
“So,” he said, his voice deep, almost erotic. It made no sense that a man who seemed determined not to show any reaction or emotion would have such a sexual voice. In fact, it wasn’t just the voice that was sexy, it was the way he moved, the way he looked at her. Hell, if she thought she could get away with it, she’d damned well let him seduce her. She tried to pull her gaze away, to look at him dispassionately, but at that moment passion was the key word. There was no way she would be able to lie motionless beneath him.
Thank God she didn’t blush. She could play this any number of ways, but she had the impression that Malcolm Gunnison wasn’t as gullible as the psychopath she’d married. The more she tried to play a role the more closely Malcolm watched her. It was time to try a variant of the truth.
She leaned back, her fingers toying with the long skirt. “So,” she said again. “I assume you’re simply placating my husband’s deranged ideas.”
Her change of tone didn’t surprise him. She doubted anything would. “Which
deranged ideas?”
She took a deep, imperceptible breath, then smiled at him. “I love my husband very much, and I’d do anything to make him happy, but I am not going to bed with you. Why he would think I would want to is beyond me.”
Malcolm didn’t even blink. “I thought you were eavesdropping,” he said. “Don’t you know that’s a dangerous thing to do? You tend to hear things you don’t want to.”
She shrugged, reaching for her coffee. It was cool now, and she hated her coffee lukewarm, but she needed something to do with her hands. “I wouldn’t say it was something I didn’t want to hear. I heard that my husband loves me and is willing to do anything to make me happy, and he doesn’t usually like to share. And I learned that you think I’m attractive enough to take to bed, even if only half of me is in working order. Very flattering. Needless to say, I have absolutely no interest in screwing you, no matter how sexy you are.”
“You think I’m sexy?” There was real amusement in his voice. “I thought you kept all that adoration for your husband.”
“I love my husband, Mr. Gunnison,” she said sternly.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.” He rose, moving around the table toward her, and she remained perfectly still. The absolutely worst part of being in the damned wheelchair was having people loom over her. She’d thought she’d gotten used to it, but Malcolm Gunnison was another matter. Without her husband’s bulk he seemed taller, more dangerous, which was absurd. She knew, to her regret, that no one was more dangerous than Archer MacDonald. “You don’t want that coffee, do you?”
“It’s cold,” she agreed. So were the jellied scrambled eggs and damp toast. She’d pretty much lost her appetite anyway.
“Let’s go for a walk instead.”
She eyed him coolly. Was there any way he could suspect? No, she was too good at covering up. If she could manage to fool everyone around her for so long she could certainly fool a stranger. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I can’t walk.”