by Anne Stuart
She needed a gun, though she had no idea where she was going to get one. No matter how many pills she dangled in front of Marco, he wouldn’t swallow any kind of an excuse to get her a gun, and she hadn’t run across anything in this room.
Though there was always the suspiciously heavy suitcase.
There was still no sound from the room beyond. She couldn’t stay in the closet forever—it would get light sooner rather than later, which would make getting back to her own bed even more difficult. Rachel would check on her, and if she found the bed empty and the wheelchair abandoned, all hell would break loose. She moved, slowly, silently, trying to peer beyond the louvered doors, and felt the first trickling of relief. He was back in bed—she could see the shape of his body through the slats of wood. He was unmoving, dead to the world, and all she could hope was that the last little bit of crushed drug had finally reached his system.
There was nothing in the closet she could use as a weapon if she were wrong. An Italian leather shoe wouldn’t do much damage no matter how hard she hit with it. She could throw the suitcase at him, but that wouldn’t buy her anything more than a few seconds. With someone as drugged as he should be, a few seconds might even be enough, though she’d rather not count on it. If she had to run for it right then, there were way too many obstacles. The island was small, and unless the wind had died down the seas would be too rough for her to even attempt to cross them.
Her muscles were cramping—she hadn’t given herself enough time to cool down properly after her training—and when she tried a small, surreptitious stretch her hand knocked against the wall. It was a very quiet thud, but she froze. This was the test. If he was out of it, he wouldn’t have heard her. Please God, let him be out of it.
The figure on the bed didn’t move. Instead, there was a choking noise and then a very loud snore, and Sophie sank back in relief. For once it appeared that God was listening.
She slid onto her knees, staring at the shadowy outlines of the suitcase in frustration. In daylight she could pick the lock, see what was inside, read any papers that might identify him. In the smothering darkness, though, there was nothing she could do but get the hell out of there as quickly and quietly as humanly possible. There would always be another time.
Her cramped limbs gave a silent protest as she rose to her feet, still hunched over in the closet. She pushed one of the doors open just a crack—thank God Archer insisted on everything being in top-notch condition. There was no betraying creak of the hinges. Mal lay still on the bed, and she pushed the door wider.
Still no movement. The door to the terrace was open, though the strong night winds were stirring the curtains, providing a blessed bit of noise to cover her. She pushed the door the rest of the way, and stepped out onto the cool tile floor.
The arms that came from behind her clamped around her like iron bars, slamming her back against a hard body, and she exploded like a crazy woman, fighting, kicking, using every dirty trick she could think of. She wrapped her leg behind him, pulling them both down, and they were rolling on the floor, thrashing, struggling in the inky darkness, all in a desperate silence where the only sound was her heartbeat and tightly controlled breath. He made no noise at all, not when her knee missed his balls but landed hard in his stomach, not when she bit his arm to make him release her, bit so hard she could taste blood, but his hold didn’t weaken. She was strong, she was fighting for her life, but he was bigger, stronger, and she knew—she’d already known—that Malcolm Gunnison was too powerful for her. In frustrated fury she sank back against the floor, her nemesis straddling her, holding her down, and she stared up into his eyes, wishing she could rip her hands free so she could claw at him.
They had ended up over by the French doors, and the faintest light was coming in, heralding the approach of dawn. She was panting silently, her heart racing. He was totally relaxed, his head tilted to one side as if examining some exotic species. “Why, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said, his mocking voice a mere thread of sound. “Holy Mary, it’s a miracle.”
Chapter Ten
Sophie stilled the last of her struggles, sinking back against the hard-tiled floor in defeat. “Get the hell off me,” she whispered furiously.
He pressed in harder, holding her down with his hips, his shoulders, his legs keeping hers still. “I don’t think so.” His voice was a breath of sound. “I’m comfortable enough.”
“I’m not.”
“Tough. I want answers.”
“Go to hell.”
“Yup,” he said succinctly, and for a moment she was silenced.
He wasn’t that heavy. She was completely immobilized, his hand was holding her arms over her head, and she considered slamming her forehead against his, but he stayed far enough out of reach that it wouldn’t be that effective. She wanted to growl in frustration. “What do you want?” she finally demanded.
He looked down at her, considering. “I have to say I’m impressed. For a woman trapped in a wheelchair you have surprising skills.”
“Don’t play games with me!” she snapped.
“Why not? It’s fun.”
Her eyes flew wide. “Fun?” she echoed in a rage. “You rat bastard sadist! Get the fuck off of me.”
Of course he didn’t move. She was slowly becoming aware of the heat of his body—he was wearing only boxers, and she could feel his skin everywhere against hers. It was unsettling.
“What were you looking for? Maybe your husband is in on this whole charade and he sent you to spy on me.”
Her laugh was bitter. “Yes, and he hits me for encouragement.”
He shrugged without loosening his hold on her. “Okay, so he doesn’t know. That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you risking what I assume is a careful charade by coming into my room? Unless you find me irresistible, in which case you should have just joined me on the bed instead of hiding in my closet. Then again, you thought I’d been fool enough to drink that little cocktail bonus of yours tonight, so I wouldn’t have been much fun.”
“You didn’t drink it.” It wasn’t a question—of course he didn’t. “Why not?”
His eyelids lowered contemplatively. “You have a tell. When you’re lying, or playing a game, or up to something, you play with your hair. I would have thought Peter Madsen would have trained you better. You’re still surprisingly good for someone so long out of the game.”
She froze, no longer thinking about the hard, warm body pressing into hers. “You’re Committee,” she said flatly. Why hadn’t she guessed it?
“You should have asked your husband. He probably would have told you.”
“He knows?” she said, aghast. “Why are you still alive?”
“Because I’m good at what I do. And because he thinks I’m a former operative, working on my own. I think my connection with the Committee was partly how I got in. He’s still holding a grudge about you.”
She’d managed to rein in her emotions. “We’ve never talked about the Committee.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Never?”
“We pretend I’m a loving wife and he’s a devoted husband. It’s an unspoken contract.” Her voice was bitter. “Why are you here? Is it to rescue me?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she realized how ridiculous they were. She’d betrayed the Committee on every level with her mindless infatuation. “Or to kill me?” she added, a sop to her pride.
“I’m not here for you at all,” he said, dismissing her. “There’s a little task you left unfinished, and it’s taken us this long to get back in. As for you, no one gives a shit what happens to you. It’s been left up to my discretion. I haven’t decided whether to kill you or just leave you here with whomever I leave alive.”
She was cold. The tiles were hard and icy beneath her, the tropical wind swept the sweat from her body, and even the warmth of his skin against her didn’t penetrate. “Why don’t you get the fuck off me and off this island? I have every intention of finishing what I started.”
“Before you fell madly in love
?” he said, his voice an annoying coo. “What’s taken you so long? As far as I can tell, you blew your cover two years ago when he shot you.”
“He didn’t shoot me—one of his men did. And I don’t know how long he knew who I was—Archer is someone who likes to play with his food. He could have known when he married me.” She didn’t think so, but then she didn’t like to think back to those first few weeks when she was so blinded by love and sex.
“And in all this time you haven’t figured out the answers? Who did train you? Madsen is better than that.”
“I was trained by the Ice Queen, and I was trained well.”
“Then you’re just incredibly stupid.”
She couldn’t deny it. “I’ve basically been held a prisoner in my room for the last two years, and for the first year I really couldn’t walk. I haven’t been given a whole lot of chances, and I would have to rely on surprise and talents, since I no longer have any access to a weapon. If we’re going to have a rational discussion, do you suppose you might get off me? I’m not particularly comfortable.”
“I don’t give a damn whether you’re comfortable or not,” he said. “And I haven’t decided whether I’m going to kill you.”
This time she didn’t let his cool words get to her. “If you’re going to kill me, now isn’t a particularly good time, unless you’re ready to finish the mission. For one thing you’d have a hard time getting off the island—the sea is very rough from all the wind and the storm, and I doubt a helicopter could land, if you’ve got that in the offing. Plus, I suspect you’re here for Archer’s beloved Pixiedust as well, and until that old fart Chekowsky shows up, you’re stuck. A dead woman next door or in your bedroom might complicate things needlessly, and I know Committee members are all about getting the job done with the least amount of fuss.”
He looked down at her for a long, silent moment, and then he moved off her, fast and graceful, reaching for her hand and hauling her to her feet. It was a very strange sensation. She hadn’t stood next to anyone in more than two years, and she hadn’t realized quite how tall he was. She could only hope her expression gave nothing away. For some reason she suddenly felt more vulnerable than she had when she was lying beneath him, or looking up at him from her wheelchair.
“Good point,” he said. He glanced out at the slowly lightening sky. “Okay, we’ll talk. You take the bed, I’ll take the chair.”
She glanced over at it. He’d piled pillows in the middle of the mattress so that it would look like he was still asleep, and she’d fallen for it. She couldn’t even think of how and when he could have managed it. “Nice trick.”
“An old one. I can’t imagine why you’re still alive when you’re so gullible.”
“Maybe I’m better than you think.”
“Since my opinion is low, that wouldn’t be too hard.” He dropped down into the chair beside the bed, watching her. “Well?”
She had the entirely juvenile desire to flip him off, but she simply stalked past him and climbed onto the bed. She wanted to shove the pillows off, or throw them at him, but instead she simply arranged them behind her and leaned back, crossing her legs in an attitude of complete relaxation. “I have every intention of taking care of Archer myself.”
“In which decade?”
She controlled her instinctive snarl. “In the next two weeks, if you must know. I’ll figure out a way. I could probably break his neck in hand-to-hand if I’m focused enough.”
“The way you immobilized me?” he said.
“Archer doesn’t have your training.” Or grace, she added silently, refusing to give him that much.
“You could use a knife,” he suggested. “The kitchen must be loaded with them.”
He was probably being facetious, but she took him at his word. “I’ve considered it. I’m good with a knife, but it’s more problematic. I know how to kill people quickly, where to strike, but you have to have perfect aim, and I don’t think Archer is going to stand still and let me practice.”
“There’s a place on the back of the neck that causes instant paralysis,” he offered in the same tone as if he were suggesting they have fish for dinner. “Do that first and you could take your time killing him.”
“The thought is appealing,” she said, slightly horrified, “but again, it requires either perfect aim or the ability to sneak up on him. I’ve been able to train my body, but I really haven’t had the opportunity to practice my throwing skills.” She kept her voice flat and unemotional.
“I don’t think you could take him in hand-to-hand combat. He’s huge.”
“He’s clumsy,” she shot back. “And I’ll use whatever I have at the time.”
“No, you won’t, because I will have taken care of him first.”
“No! He owes me. If anyone kills him, it’s going to be me,” she said fiercely.
He laughed at her, and somehow the barely audible tone infuriated her. “Because you’ve proved to be so reliable in the past, haven’t you? Don’t get in my way. I have no particular interest in killing you, but I wouldn’t hesitate if I think you’re a liability.”
She glared at him. “You stay out of my way and I won’t have to kill you.”
His faint smile was even more annoying. “You can try.”
Sophie Jordan MacDonald had long, shapely legs that he could see quite clearly beneath that oversized T-shirt she was wearing. He’d been able to see her feet and ankles, felt the muscles and resilience in her body when he carried her—he wondered what had kept him from figuring out the truth for so long.
There was a simple answer—she was good, despite her flawed record. She’d had some of the best recommendations during her time in London, and even though she’d originally been sent as a part of a team, simply as backup, they wouldn’t have sent anyone they weren’t sure was capable of killing Archer MacDonald if it came to that.
But she’d been thrown in the deep end before she could really swim, and she was lucky she’d survived, though he guessed it was more than luck. The bullet that had originally crippled her hadn’t been a fatal one, and since then, she’d not only survived but thrived, though he doubted she’d call it that. She was looking at him like he was the enemy, and that suited him just fine. He was the enemy—if she did anything, anything at all, it could end in disaster. If he were as cold-blooded as he should be, he’d figure out a way to kill her, swiftly and efficiently, making it look like an accident. Most operatives wouldn’t hesitate.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded in an angry whisper.
He shrugged. He ought to put on some clothes—sitting there in nothing but his boxers made the proximity of all her skin more disturbing, and it brought back the feel of her body beneath his, the soft swell of her breasts pressing against her worn T-shirt, against his chest, her long legs entwining with his as she did her best to fight him. He still had a pain in his right kidney from her knee, but it could have been a lot worse, and the bite on his upper arm was oozing blood. “I was thinking about ways I could kill you and get away with it. You’re already too much of a complication and I prefer to keep things simple.”
She had to know he was partly serious, but she didn’t even flinch. “What did you come up with? I could try it out on you.”
“We’re not the same, sweetheart,” he said dryly. “I was considering breaking your neck and placing your body artistically at the bottom of the stairs. After all, you’ve supposedly fallen once today. Or I could toss you off the balcony and they could go with accident or suicide, which Archer might find more believable.”
“Accident,” she said calmly. “He still thinks I’m in love with him.”
“That’s what it looks like. Does he think you don’t know he was behind the shooting?”
“We’ve never discussed it, but I don’t think he’d underestimate me that badly. He believes I married him because I loved him . . .”
“Which you did,” Mal pointed out.
She didn’t react. “He kn
ew I was infatuated with him, and he’s such an egomaniac that he easily believes I still adore him no matter what he does. It’s one of his few weaknesses.”
“So why did he marry you? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to fall madly in love.”
“I have no idea. Maybe he liked the idea of being in love, and I was infatuated enough for both of us.”
“Does he fuck you?” He was trying to make her uncomfortable, but she gave no sign.
“No,” she said coolly. “He doesn’t like illness, or deformity, or anything less than physical perfection. It’s part of his OCD tendencies. He hasn’t even demanded a blow job.” She said the words deliberately, giving away her discomfort. Otherwise she wouldn’t have needed to prove how unmoved she was.
“Too bad. You could have bitten off his dick.”
“Not tempting,” she said.
“I could also drown you.” He continued their earlier conversation, preferring not to think of Sophie and fucking in the same scenario. “Either the pool or the ocean.”
“You’d have to figure out how I managed to get downstairs when I’m supposedly in a wheelchair,” she pointed out. “You could say I asked you to bring me down for a swim but then you fell asleep and I disappeared. It’s a little lame, but it might do.” She gave him a dulcet smile. “Just trying to be helpful.”
He wasn’t going to give her a reaction either. “Very thoughtful. I could say you crept in here for sex and I thought you were an intruder and shot you.”
She considered it, then shook her head. “Weak,” she judged it. “For one thing this room is two steps lower than the balcony, and the wheelchair wouldn’t make it down. I suppose I could have flopped on my belly and crawled over to you like some Persian mistress, but then you wouldn’t have shot me.”
“I could shoot you in the doorway.”
“You wouldn’t mistake me for anyone else when I’m in my wheelchair. Besides, Archer wouldn’t have let you on the island with a gun.”
“And you think Archer always gets what he wants?” he countered softly.