Wildfire (Fire 3)

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.”

“I noticed.” He moved behind her, reached down, and unlocked the wheels. “That doesn’t mean you have to stay in one place.” He turned her, quite deftly, and in the next moment he was wheeling her away from the house. She arched her neck to look back at him, but his expression was entirely unreadable. She needed to get used to that—he wasn’t giving anything away.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Out of range of the house.”