Wildfire (Fire 3)

She was tempted to wheel away from him, but that would be even more awkward. She could feel heat flame her face, but she did her best to look calm. “Archer told you,” she reminded him. “I fell down the stairs.”

“How?”

“What do you mean, how? How does anyone fall down the stairs?”

His green eyes were eagle-sharp, all charm vanishing. “You look beat to shit,” he said, “but a fall down those stairs, with the wheelchair on top of you, could have killed you, or at least broken a few bones. Yet you look like you took a tumble in your bathroom, not defied death. I’m still asking you. What happened?”

She could tell him none of his goddamned business, but that might seem defensive. The last thing she wanted him or anyone else to know was that she had to put up with Archer’s sadistic abuse. It shamed her.

She had no choice but to compound the lie. “I didn’t fall all the way down the stairs,” she said. “It was just partway, and I fell out of the wheelchair without bringing it with me. In fact, there’s nothing to make such a fuss over. I felt dizzy, came out of my room to call for Joe, and the next thing I knew I was halfway down the stairs, hurting like hell.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes running down her body, from her bare feet peeping from beneath the sundress to her bare arms. “And you’d have no reason to lie,” he said eventually.

“Of course not!” she said, surprised enough to sound believable. “Why would I?”

“You tell me.” He leaned over, placing his hands on the arms of the wheelchair, trapping her. But then, supposedly I am already trapped, she reminded herself.

“Look,” she said in a reasonable voice. “My husband loves me, and even if he didn’t, he’s very careful about his possessions. He wouldn’t let anyone get away with hurting me.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Mal said. He leaned forward and his fingers brushed against her upper arm with exquisite tenderness. “You just happened to land on something that left a bruise with a remarkable resemblance to a hand.”

She looked down. It was there on her arm, the outline of Archer’s hand where he’d gripped her so tightly it still ached. She met Mal’s calm gaze. There was no pity, no emotion at all. “So it does,” she said, shrugging, able to stop her wince in time. “Do I strike you as the kind of woman who would allow herself to be manhandled?” She almost didn’t want him to answer.

“It depends who and what you really are,” he said. “And whether you really belong in that wheelchair.”

The words were like a punch in the stomach, but she managed not to react. “Oh, actually I’m just fine. I spend all the time in my room tap-dancing—I hope the noise hasn’t bothered you.”

There was the faintest hint of a smile on his mouth, but he didn’t say anything, just started for his open door. He paused at the entrance. “I’ll leave you to enjoy some time to yourself. Feel free to tap-dance if the mood strikes you.”

“Why did you unlock the door?” she said suddenly, unwilling to let him leave. “I don’t think my husband will approve.”

“No, I suppose he won’t,” Malcolm replied. “He likes to keep you like a rare specimen, a butterfly under glass. That way he can take you out any time he wants and pull your wings off.”

He knew. Of course he did—Mal wasn’t a man who missed anything, and adding two and two wasn’t rocket science. She wasn’t going to bother denying it.

“But they always grow back,” she said. She tried for an easy laugh, knowing it was unconvincing. “I’ll just enjoy the terrace while it lasts.”

“Oh, it will last,” he said smoothly. “Your husband will do it if I ask him.”

“My husband doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. That’s the advantage of being a billionaire. Why should it be any different with you?”

“Leave that up to me,” Malcolm said.

Before she could ask another question he was gone, and she breathed a reluctant sigh of relief. She’d said more to him in the last five minutes than she’d said to anyone else in the years since she’d been shot. Those were dangerous waters.

She rolled the chair back to the edge so she could look at the sea, all the time conscious of the camera on the overhanging roof trained on her. At least the cameras were stationary, and it was easy enough to figure out the trajectory of its view—where she’d be safe to move, where she wouldn’t be watched.

Would Malcolm really be able to convince Archer to leave the door unlocked, the stretch of balcony cleared? Archer wouldn’t have much excuse not to, but that wouldn’t faze her husband. If he wanted her locked up, he would do so.

And what kind of leverage did Malcolm have? Archer could buy anything he wanted, steal it, murder to get it. He had all the money he could ever need, enough power—personal, financial, and political—to keep him happy. What could someone like Malcolm Gunnison possibly have to offer that would compete with that?

As if summoned by her thoughts, Archer strode out onto the beach, wearing his swim trunks, one of the women on his arm like a trophy. From that distance Sophie couldn’t quite tell which one it was—the three of them looked alike, but from the immovable plastic boobs she guessed it was Rachel who was dressed in the monokini. They were at the water’s edge when Malcolm joined them, and for a moment Sophie’s breath caught. He’d changed too, in record time, and for a moment she couldn’t pull her eyes from him.

He should have looked thin and weak next to Archer’s bulked-up physique, but Sophie wasn’t fooled. Beneath the smoothly tanned skin were taut muscles, possibly even a match for Archer’s brute strength.

Malcolm said something and Archer threw back his head and laughed. He glanced up at the balcony, and if she hadn’t been shielded by the half wall he would have seen her there, watching. In fact, he gave a little wave in he

r approximate direction anyway, seemingly lighthearted, as if he hadn’t used his fists on her less than an hour ago.