Malcolm stood there, silhouetted against the setting sun, and for a moment her breath caught, before she regained control of her common sense. With almost superhuman effort she managed to pull herself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain in her wrenched arm, the dull throb in her ribs. If he’d broken them she would have to find something to tape them with—otherwise they could slow her down if she had to make a run for it.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, furious that her voice came out a little shaky. She should have gotten used to Archer’s occasional attentions by now—there was no need for her to feel sorry for herself. He hadn’t had time to get properly worked up, and the bruises would fade quickly.
“Archer said you fell down the stairs,” he said, and he sounded almost annoyed. “Why did you do a stupid thing like that?”
“Why would you care?” she shot back without thinking. He’d sounded different in his irritation, and then she realized what it was. His English accent had faded.
“I don’t, particularly,” he said, his anger vanishing as if it had never been there, and he stepped into the shadowy room. It was a lie, and she wondered why. Why he would care one way or another if she’d been hurt?
“Then why are you here?”
He hesitated for a moment. “The rain’s stopped,” he said, “and the sun is starting to come out.”
“It usually does,” she said caustically. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here, and for that matter, where did you get the key for that door?” She knew perfectly well he’d picked it, just as he had last night. She even knew he’d deliberately made more noise this afternoon, just to alert her. Whoever he was, he was good. The fresh air drifted in, and she felt cool, healing energy begin to surge through her bruised body.
His mouth curled, just slightly. “I decided you shouldn’t be kept a prisoner in this
room. You should at least have the run of the balcony.”
“It’s covered with wood and construction debris,” she protested, stalling for time. She needed to get herself into the bathroom and assess the damages. Archer had come up with the perfect explanation for any bruises, but she wanted to see for herself how bad they were.
“I cleared it. Hop into your chair and I’ll show you.”
“I don’t hop anywhere,” she said severely.
His smile was wider now, startling her. He’d been so dark and unreadable that seeing him actually smile was unsettling. It was a charming smile, hinting that there was more beneath his cool, distant exterior. “Of course you don’t,” he said soothingly. “My bad. I forget you’re paralyzed.”
She should believe him, but she didn’t. She’d given him absolutely no reason to suspect her, but there was something going on behind those green eyes, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what it was. She knew one thing—she should never underestimate Malcolm Gunnison.
She pushed her legs over to the side of the bed, not bothering to hide her grimace of pain. The ribs felt bruised, not broken, and the side of her face throbbed, but it was her right arm and shoulder that hurt the most, that had taken the brunt of his punishment, and using them to lever her body into the chair made her want to whimper. Nothing that a little ibuprofen, ice, and sheer will wouldn’t bring under control, but she wasn’t about to show weakness in front of Mal. She landed in the chair a little less gracefully than usual, and her limp legs hit against the footrests with a clanging sound. She needed to be left alone to lick her wounds. He wasn’t getting the message.
She picked up her legs and placed her supposedly useless feet on the footrests before she unlocked the wheels. At least she didn’t need to pretend about the pain, and she slowly wheeled herself around the big bed to stop in front of him as he filled the French doors. She could see the sun behind him, sparkling off the rain-damp palm trees, and she could smell the hypnotic ambrosia of the ocean and wet earth. Pain was the least of her problems, and she knew with sudden certainty that nothing could keep her locked in her bedroom anymore, not common sense, not her sadistic husband, not the danger that Malcolm Gunnison represented, not even the risk of her escape. He was gilded by the sunlight, but he was no angel—of that she was sure. But the question still remained—was he a devil?
She looked up at him, her face still in the shadows. He hadn’t changed either, and his linen shirt was still damp, clinging to his chest, revealing more muscle than she would have thought for such a lean body.
“Are you going to just stand there?” she said, not bothering to hide her impatience. “Or are you some troll guarding the entrance, and you want me to pay my way?”
She caught him off guard. His slow smile widened, and she felt a sudden tightening in her stomach. This dangerous, dangerous man shouldn’t have a smile like that, one that was absolutely breathtaking. “Depends on what you have to offer,” he said.
She didn’t smile back—she couldn’t afford to—but resisting that smile was ridiculously difficult. “Not much that you would want.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, and she held her breath as he moved, knowing he was going to touch her.
Instead, he stepped back, holding the wide door open for her to roll the chair through, and her sense of relief was so strong she almost missed her own thread of regret. Yes, he was a danger. But she didn’t frighten easily.
The moment she reached the rain-washed flagstones of the balcony, she forgot all about him. She could see the ocean from up here, the sun as it was dipping lower and lower in the west—the scents of the island were almost overwhelming. Even after all this time she felt herself seduced by the beauty of the place, the feel of the hot, lush air on her skin, the soft breeze ruffling her hair, the sinking sun warming her face.
“Isn’t this better?” He was right behind her, too close, and once more she had the odd sense that he was going to touch her.
He didn’t.
“Much better,” she said, unable to keep the note of longing from her voice as she looked out over the sandy beach where she used to run, the riot of flowers in the garden she’d once planned and tended.
She felt him step back. “I’ll leave you to enjoy yourself,” he said.
This time she did turn, moving her chair to look up at him. “Why did you do this?”
His expression had frozen, and she realized belatedly that he hadn’t had a good look at her yet. “What the fuck did you do to yourself?”