by Anne Stuart
She really had the most beautiful warm, brown eyes. No wonder a psychopath like Archer had fallen for her—who wouldn’t? “I don’t know yet,” he said lightly. “I’ll have to try it again when someone hasn’t slammed a fist into your mouth.” He waited for her to deny it. Kissing her had been a very bad idea, because he wanted more, and even if he ignored common sense and his mission, he couldn’t ignore the very real pain she must be feeling.
Her expression darkened. “No one slammed a fist into my mouth,” she snapped. “And if you try it again, that’s exactly what I’ll do to you.”
“Of course you will, Sophie,” he said dryly. “Ready for dinner, or should I see if there are other, less damaged parts of you I could kiss?”
She actually did try to hit him then—a lost cause when she was trapped in his arms. “No?” he said. “I’m willing to wait.” He started toward the door, opening it with ease and carrying her through it. “And don’t worry that your husband might object to your presence tonight—he wants to placate me while I sit around on this damned island waiting. Besides, I think he needs to look at your face.”
There was still tension in her body, but she said nothing as they started down the stairs. They met the burly guard halfway down, a pugnacious look on the man’s face. “Boss said you were to stay upstairs, missus,” he said, and made as if to take her from Malcolm’s arms.
Stupid move on his part. “She’s coming down for dinner,” Mal said flatly, considering his options. Normally in a situation like this he wouldn’t rock the boat. If the man, Joe, tried to take her away from him, he could disable him with a kick that he wouldn’t see coming, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to go that far. A bull like Joe wouldn’t be disabled long, even with a kick to the groin, and Mal didn’t want to be grappling on the stairs with Sophie in the way.
“Could you get my chair, Joe?” Sophie said.
Her request distracted the bodyguard long enough to let Mal think about what he was doing. Archer wouldn’t like a confrontation at this point any more than Mal did, and it could backfire on Joe.
Finally the man stepped back with a brief nod. “If you want to go downstairs, I’ll carry you,” he said finally, not giving up. “You know Mr. MacDonald doesn’t like other men touching you.”
“He’ll tolerate me,” Mal said, pushing past him. “And don’t bother with the wheelchair—I can take care of her.” He continued down the stairs, holding her carefully, not looking back.
“Now that you two dogs are finished fighting over me,” Sophie said in a caustic voice, “maybe you should just take me back . . .”
“Maybe you should stop letting men bully you,” Mal said.
He would have found her tart expression comical if it weren’t for the bruises. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Take me back upstairs.”
“I’m talking about men who would hurt you.”
She laughed out loud, the sound bitter. “And you’re exempt from that list?”
It shouldn’t have bothered him, but he did. Score one for Mrs. MacDonald. Maybe all her training hadn’t disappeared. He might even have to go as far as killing her—he was hardly a safe haven. If he knew anything about women, he knew that ones who have been abused tend to have a love-hate relationship with their abuser. She might want Archer dead, but she could just as easily hate whoever did the deed.
Archer was waiting for them by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, his usual affable smile on his face, but Mal could see in his eyes that he’d done exactly what Archer wanted him to do. Tant pis. If Archer thought Mal was playing into his hands, so much the better.
“You changed your mind about coming down, darling!” Archer cooed. “I’m so glad. After that wicked fall I thought you might not feel able to join us. So clumsy of you. How many times have I told you to be careful?”
Damn. She’s good, thought Mal. There wasn’t a trace of tension in her body as she smiled at the bastard. “I’m sorry, Archer. I should have waited for Joe.”
He leaned forward and gave her an affectionate tap on the chin. “My naughty girl,” he said with such rich indulgence that Mal was impressed. Did these two play out these games without an audience, or was their mutual hatred out in the open? Did he smile as he hit her? Archer held out his arms. “I’ll take my wife. After all, she’s my burden, not yours.”
Mal wasn’t about to relinquish her. “Not tonight,” he said evenly.
There was a sudden stillness in the room, as if time had stopped. Mal had thrown down a challenge, and a man like Archer would never let someone dictate to him. Maybe he was going to flip out, and this whole debacle would be over.
He wanted it all to be over. He wanted to kill Archer MacDonald, and he had ever since he’d seen the bruises on Sophie’s face. What the hell is wrong with me? he thought. He had a mission to complete, and RU48 was an important part of it. If he killed Archer now, it would set them back months, something the world couldn’t afford. But he wasn’t about to step back. Archer had started this game, with Sophie as the prize. Mal played to win.
After a frozen moment Archer raised a patrician eyebrow, and the tension drained from the room. “Oh ho! It seems you’ve got a conquest, my little Sophie. Not that I blame him. You’re still one hell of a woman.” He turned. “We’re having drinks by the pool. Join us out there.”
He drifted off, but Mal made no effort to follow him. He was aware of Sophie’s dark eyes staring up at him. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” she demanded. “What are you doing?” For once her voice was devoid of all of the roles she’d been playing—it was flat, even businesslike. But she was no longer a professional.
He looked down at her, the bruised cheek, the wash of freckles, the rich brown eyes, and the mouth he’d kissed . . . he shouldn’t be thinking about her mouth. He was a man known to be the consummate professional, a killer with ice in his veins. Could he actually kill her if the time came? “What do I think I’m doing?” Mal echoed lightly. “Putting the cat among the pigeons.” Keeping a firm hold on her, he strode out to the veranda.
Sophie had had more comfortable meals in her life. The barbs between Archer and Mal were flying fast and furious, making her acutely uncomfortable, even more so because she couldn’t read the level of true animosity between the thinly veiled insults and suggestions. She only knew that Archer was enjoying himself immensely—nothing made him happier than sparring with an equal partner. She’d decided long ago that that was one reason he hit her—he wanted an adversary, and she refused to give him one, no matter how he attacked. He’d never said a word about what he’d discovered about her true identity, and she’d never hinted that she knew he was behind her almost murder. She just smiled sweetly at him, her only form of revenge.
Her jaw hurt when she chewed, but she gave no sign of it. The two men were deep in their contest, and it seemed as if no one were paying attention to her, but she knew otherwise. Both of them were watching her and pretending they weren’t, and she was pissed off, restless, annoyed. She wasn’t sure who she was angrier with—her murderous husband who had used his fists on her just a few hours earlier or the man who had seemed to help her.
Why the hell had he kissed her? Despite outward appearances she wasn’t stupid enough to think he didn’t have some complicated, probably lethal, motive behind it. People in Malcolm Gunnison’s world—that world inhabited by the Archers and the various other soulless people she’d met along the way—didn’t kiss like that, they fucked. If they kissed at all, it was simply as foreplay, a far cry from the brush of his lips against hers. She’d never been kissed like that—all gentleness from a man who probably didn’t have a gentle bone in his body. She wanted to throw her wineglass at him.
She wasn’t going to do that, of course. She was going to sit there and smile airily and not give anything away, not her hatred of Archer and his vicious hands, not her confusion over Mal. In fact, she wasn’t going to think about that kiss at all—it was an aberration, done to set her off ba
lance. Or maybe he just felt sorry for the beaten wife. Except you didn’t put your mouth against someone’s if you were feeling sympathetic.
No, she wasn’t going to think about it.
Problem was, she didn’t trust Mal any more than she trusted her husband. No one on this island was innocent, not even her, and enough of her training remained that she recognized Mal as very dangerous indeed. Possibly more so than Archer. Archer was prey to his own megalomania, his inflated sense of self and privilege. She didn’t think Mal had any weaknesses at all. Whatever game he was playing with her had to have some sinister motive. Maybe it was simply to fuck with Archer’s mind, maybe it was more complicated. After all, Archer wouldn’t know he’d kissed her—they’d been out of the range of the cameras, and she suspected Mal knew exactly where all the cameras were, just as she did. He’d done nothing else to suggest he had any real interest in her—she was a pawn between two treacherous men. When she left, she ought to put a bullet in his brain as well as Archer’s.
Could she do it? She couldn’t figure out what the kiss was, but of one thing she was certain—it was a lie. Gentleness and tenderness had fled her life long ago, and she recognized a wolf when she saw one. Beneath his elegant clothes and his British accent Malcolm Gunnison was a feral, treacherous creature, and he was here for prey. It was logical to assume that whatever Mal was hunting was under Archer’s direction.
But Mal didn’t act as if he answered to anyone, in particular her husband. Supposedly Archer wanted him to go to bed with her, though she couldn’t imagine why. Maybe simply as a test of loyalty—if you screw my crippled wife, then you must really be willing to do what I want.
If the man was in business with Archer, then he had to have done any number of things that were worthy of a death penalty. Shooting him would make her life simpler.
She’d never killed anyone in her life—Archer would have been her first—and she never thought she’d hesitate. She wouldn’t now, when she found her chance.
Maybe she’d let Mal live, just for the sake of that lying kiss that had felt so good. She could always shoot him in the knee before she left. In the kind of life he had to live, in order to be among Archer’s people, no one survived long. But she didn’t have to be judge, jury, and executioner. She might as well face the ugly, unpalatable truth. She was attracted to him, when she thought she was too smart to be tempted by anyone.
Three years ago she’d destroyed her life by falling in love with a liar and a criminal and a psychopath. As far as she knew, if she didn’t keep a tight rein on her thoughts and feelings, she could do it again. In which case she might as well turn the gun on herself.
There had to be something deeply wrong with her that she kept looking for signs of redemption in the dangerous man who’d come to the island. She hadn’t really found any, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t keep trying. She wondered if it was for the simple reason that he’d actually been kind to her in his own way, taking her down to the beach, clearing off the balcony for her . . . kissing her. She must be so starved for any sign of decency that she was willing to start building fantasies about a man as tender as a feral wolf. She had to stop it.
But next time he decided to scoop her up and take her somewhere, she was going to fight tooth and nail. Or she might just have to kill him after all.
Archer MacDonald leaned back on the chaise, surveying the sky dreamily as Rachel worked him with her mouth. He put out his hand to push her downward, then frowned as he saw the bruising on his knuckles. He’d accidentally hurt himself while he was teaching his errant wife a lesson. He seldom made mistakes—he knew the soft, painful parts of a body, knew just where to hit, to twist, to apply pressure without making marks. Unfortunately he got overexcited this afternoon. It was the bitch’s fault—he saw the way she looked at Malcolm Gunnison, and it fired his blood. If she thought Malcolm was going to be her knight in shining armor, her noble rescuer, then she would suffer a painful disappointment. Never again would someone be able to sneak into his life beneath his radar—Gunnison had been vetted by some of the most powerful people in the world, including his current employer. He was responsible for a truly impressive amount of transactions in the third world, and he had even less of a conscience than Archer did, which was high praise indeed. No, the man was enjoying the game as much as Archer was, and poor little Sophie was stuck in the middle.
It had come to him out of the blue, the thought of putting Sophie in Malcolm’s bed. She really had been a bit of a puritan—it was that innocence that had first drawn him. Her sexual experience had been limited, for all that she tried to appear like a woman of the world, and that disparity between her cool sophistication and her uncertainty in bed had excited him.
She was still a prude, maybe she’d become even more of one. He’d thought it would be interesting to see what she could do in bed. He certainly wasn’t going to try it—he didn’t like broken things, deformities, dysfunction. The thought of fucking a woman with no feeling below her waist made him a little sick.
It also excited some dark part inside him. She’d always been a good fuck, but he knew a lot of that was because she’d been so in love with him. She still was—no matter what he did, she still loved him. He was completely sure of that. Getting her in bed, making her do what he wanted, could keep him entertained for weeks, but he wasn’t about to touch her until he knew what he was getting into, literally. Would she be all nasty and dried out?
Sophie hadn’t been interested in any of the young men he’d brought to the island, and Archer had grown bored with the game. But now she was looking at Malcolm Gunnison with more interest than she’d shown since the accident, and the answer was quite simple. Mal could go first, lighting the way, so to speak.
He’d even allowed Mal to dictate his access to his own wife. Archer hadn’t minded—it would make the reunion that much sweeter. He’d learned long ago that greedily grabbing for everything, be it money, power, or sex, could backfire, and he still owed Sophie a great deal of payback.
He slapped Rachel’s head, urging her to go faster. Odd, but he was a little miffed at first when Sophie seemed to weaken toward Malcolm. She’d resisted everyone else. He understood her very well after all these years. She still loved him, longed for his touch, and even welcomed his abuse—since he would give her nothing else. Her immediate reaction to Malcolm had been hostile, but he’d caught her looking at the man, and he would bet his life that she wanted him.
He’d planned to have Malcolm use Sophie while he watched, just to liven things up a bit while he waited for Chekowsky to arrive. He hadn’t counted on Malcolm destroying his surveillance equipment, but he wasn’t disappointed. Just more proof that Malcolm was as high on the food chain as he presented himself. Archer couldn’t imagine why he’d want a broken toy like Sophie, but he must be bored as well, and women like Rachel grew boring very quickly.
Archer leaned back as Rachel hunched over him, sweat dripping off her face, onto his belly. He should punish her for that, but it didn’t seem worth the effort. No, he was more interested in the thought of seeing exactly what Gunnison would do with Sophie. His Sophie. She would need to be punished for it, of course. He could feel the anticipation rush through him.
It was on ongoing conundrum. He wanted Sophie gone, but if anyone was going to kill her, he reserved the right to do it.
The answer appeared in front of him like a divine vision. He could have Gunnison kill her. The man was a machine—killing would be child’s play. He’d probably get off on the idea of finishing Sophie. Most of the men he knew liked killing women—he, for one, preferred them to men. You got more bang for your buck: tears, pleas, panic. It was no fun to kill operatives—they were stoic, giving him nothing. No, he didn’t think Gunnison would give him an argument if he asked him to fuck and then kill Sophie. The only question was whether he would let Archer watch.
He’d insist on it. After all, it wasn’t often that a host provided such singular entertainment. He wanted, needed, to see the
light in her eyes fade as she knew she was dying. He needed to watch her struggle. He shoved Rachel away from him, standing up abruptly. Gunnison wouldn’t deny him, not if he wanted a deal for the Pixiedust.
It all depended on whether Mal was someone who took pleasure in his work or simply, coldly, did what needed to be done. The latter kind of people were easier to trust—they didn’t allow anything to distract them from getting the job done with robotlike efficiency.
Archer was having his doubts. Mal was interested in Sophie, though Archer couldn’t understand why. She was nowhere near as beautiful as the other women on the island, and she was stuck in a wheelchair. Hardly the stuff of erotic dreams.
But there was something about Sophie, and always had been, even when she’d been lying through her teeth and setting him up. Something that he’d never been able to put his finger on had drawn him to her, and in the past few years he still hadn’t managed to figure it out. If he could pinpoint it, he could get rid of it, as brutally as possible.
It wasn’t her strength—he’d rendered her as weak as possible. It wasn’t her sense of humor—he’d managed to strip that away as well. Maybe it was the fact that she adored him, no matter what he did to her . . . but he was used to adoration. It bored him.
No, there was something indefinable about Sophie, and what he didn’t understand he destroyed. He’d been doing it in stages, but it was time to finish it.
Archer smiled expansively. Malcolm Gunnison had come with the highest recommendations. It would be ridiculously simple to get rid of one extraneous, traitorous bitch of a wife. Really, it was all working out beautifully.
Chapter Nine
In the end it was surprisingly easy. Sophie had more than enough time to lay out her plan during dinner, the men’s voices a backdrop in her head. There was something off about Malcolm Gunnison. Something that didn’t compute. He wasn’t one of the pretty boys Archer had brought in to test her—despite that brief kiss, he’d done no overt flirting. She had the sense that he watched her, but he was watching Archer even more closely. Like most of Archer’s associates, he was clearly a man who trusted nothing and no one, and that should have been standard operating procedure.