So he knew there were cameras and microphones? Of course he did. Archer didn’t bring innocents to the island, and there was nothing naïve about Mal’s clear green eyes. “Turn left,” she said abruptly as he reached the corner of the terrace.
“I’d planned to turn right.”
She shook her head. “Turn left,” she repeated. “There’s a fairly level path down to a small hidden cove, and you shouldn’t have any trouble pushing me. It’s very peaceful.” There was also a long stretch with no surveillance at all. If for some indiscernible reason Mal had come to the island to kill her, then she’d just played into his hands, and she couldn’t rule that out. Then again, the only person who’d want her dead would be Archer, and he’d want to watch.
Maybe the Committee was tying up loose ends and had decided to punish her for ignoring her mission and running off with Archer, which had to be the stupidest thing she’d ever done in her life. It didn’t matter that she’d been thrown into the mission before she was ready—there was still no excuse.
But Malcolm wasn’t a member of the Committee—she knew that without any shadow of a doubt. The Committee members she’d known had essentially been soldiers, and Malcolm was too elegant, too self-contained to be an efficient soldier. He was someone who would work alone.
No, he was a far cry from the Committee, and besides, they’d written her off years ago. She’d made her bed and now she had to fester in it. They weren’t going to rescue her, but they wouldn’t waste manpower getting rid of her. Malcolm Gunnison was no threat to her, even if it felt like he was the most dangerous man in the world.
He turned left, pushing her over the closely cropped grass, and in moments they were on the narrow path that led down to the beach. She didn’t like having him behind her, pushing the chair, but she didn’t have much choice in the matter. It had been so long since she’d been down to the small cove that she was willing to do anything to get there, even allow the enemy to transport her.
Of course, it remained to be seen whether or not he was the enemy. He might be the only person on the island to have no agenda of hurting her. His late-night foray into her room could have been simple reconnaissance by a wary criminal. It seemed that he was either there to kill her, in which case she’d already be dead, or he was just one of her husband’s cronies. Corrupt, evil, and soulless, as all of them were, but no more threat to her than Elena, the cook, although Sophie wasn’t even certain about her. Archer had ways of getting people to do what he wanted, including bribery, threats, and extortion.
Mal didn’t seem like someone who’d be coerced into doing anything. Indeed, whoever sent him here would have had to believe he could stand up to Archer. Which meant he was probably no threat to her.
So why did she feel hyperalert around him, restless and churned up? It was either the stomach flu or lust, she told herself with latent amusement. Not that he wasn’t lustworthy, with that long, lean body, but she’d much prefer stomach flu. She allowed herself a furtive glance over her shoulder, but he had the same enigmatic expression on his face that he’d had before, giving nothing away, and she told herself that after the past few years, the last thing she was interested in was sex.
The thick foliage began to disperse, and suddenly they reached the small crescent of sand leading down to the deep blue-green water, her own particular place to think, to dream. She’d considered asking Archer to put a pathway to the spot so her wheelchair could reach it, but in the end she’d changed her mind. Archer had never known about it, and this place was hers and hers alone. She had no intention of sharing it.
So why was she sharing it now, with this enigmatic stranger? She’d have to figure that out later.
It didn’t look as if anyone else had been there in her absence. The wooden bench where she used to lie, reading her novels, was now overgrown with weeds, the paint peeling off from the constant exposure to sun and rain. The formerly clear water was full of seaweed as it lapped against the shore, but she didn’t care. Without realizing it, she let out a sigh of contentment.
“You like this spot better than the wide beach I came in on?” Malcolm said, and Sophie jerked in surprise. For a brief, dangerous moment she’d forgotten all about him, awash in the joy of returning to her favorite place.
He parked her wheelchair at the edge of the sand, locked the wheels, and moved around her to stand by the water. He was wearing sunglasses, though she couldn’t remember when he’d put them on, and it almost seemed as if he’d dismissed her from his mind.
She knew better than that. “This is my own secret place,” she said finally. “I used to come down here and stay for hours, and no one would ever bother me.”
He didn’t look back at her. “Used to?”
“You know better than anyone how difficult it is to push a wheelchair down that path,” she said sharply.
He turned then, his sunglasses in place, shielding his eyes and his expression. “You appear to have a household ready to wait on you,” he said lightly. “Why didn’t you simply ask for someone to bring you down?”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” she said. It wasn’t a smart thing to do. Malcolm Gunnison needed to think she was deeply in love with her husband, content as a pampered cat.
But why? If Malcolm had come to hurt Archer, then she could help him in return for an escape from this golden prison. But if he’d come to hurt her, to do Archer’s bidding and report back to him, then she was better keeping her thoughts and her feelings to herself, as she’d done so well for the past few years. She’d let her instincts betray her once, when she’d fallen for Archer, and she was still paying the price. It would be a cold day in hell before she trusted this man.
She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Mr. Gunnison. Every now and then I feel a little bit sorry for myself. Of course you’re right—Archer would do anything for me. All I have to do is ask. I just feel that my demands are so many and I give so little back that I don’t want to be any more trouble than I have to be. Besides, I kind of like keeping this place a secret, just for me.” She knew she was selling it, with a wistful smile and the faintest fluttering of her hand that disguised the muscle and made her seem frail and weak.
She just wished she could see his eyes to make sure. He stared at her for a long, thoughtful minute, saying nothing, and then he moved closer. “Then why did you bring me here?”
The simple question shouldn’t have shocked her. Why in God’s name had she brought him here, to the one place that felt safe? Now it would feel contaminated, ruined.
Oddly enough, though, it didn’t. She floundered for an answer and came up with a logical one. “It was the only way I could get here,” she said. “And you’ll be gone soon enough and no one else will know about it.”
He said nothing, and she couldn’t tell whether he bought it or not. In fact, she’d been an idiot to direct him down here. The fewer people who knew about this place, the better.
“Do you want to get out of that damned chair?” he said after a moment, his voice casual.
She looked up at him in alarm. “And do what?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Sit in the sand, put your toes in the water, make sand castles.”
“Sand castles are a waste of time. The moment you build them, the tide rolls in and washes them away.” Shit, why did she say that? He seemed to have the ability to draw the most revealing things from her. She laughed again. “You see, I warned you I was feeling sorry for myself today.”