Wildfire (Fire 3)

“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.”