Wildfire (Fire 3)

He looked down at her, considering. “I have to say I’m impressed. For a woman trapped in a wheelchair you have surprising skills.”

“Don’t play games with me!” she snapped.

“Why not? It’s fun.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Fun?” she echoed in a rage. “You rat bastard sadist! Get the fuck off of me.”

Of course he didn’t move. She was slowly becoming aware of the heat of his body—he was wearing only boxers, and she could feel his skin everywhere against hers. It was unsettling.

“What were you looking for? Maybe your husband is in on this whole charade and he sent you to spy on me.”

Her laugh was bitter. “Yes, and he hits me for encouragement.”

He shrugged without loosening his hold on her. “Okay, so he doesn’t know. That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you risking what I assume is a careful charade by coming into my room? Unless you find me irresistible, in which case you should have just joined me on the bed instead of hiding in my closet. Then again, you thought I’d been fool enough to drink that little cocktail bonus of yours tonight, so I wouldn’t have been much fun.”

“You didn’t drink it.” It wasn’t a question—of course he didn’t. “Why not?”

His eyelids lowered contemplatively. “You have a tell. When you’re lying, or playing a game, or up to something, you play with your hair. I would have thought Peter Madsen would have trained you better. You’re still surprisingly good for someone so long out of the game.”

She froze, no longer thinking about the hard, warm body pressing into hers. “You’re Committee,” she said flatly. Why hadn’t she guessed it?

“You should have asked your husband. He probably would have told you.”

“He knows?” she said, aghast. “Why are you still alive?”

“Because I’m good at what I do. And because he thinks I’m a former operative, working on my own. I think my connection with the Committee was partly how I got in. He’s still holding a grudge about you.”

She’d managed to rein in her emotions. “We’ve never talked about the Committee.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Never?”

“We pretend I’m a loving wife and he’s a devoted husband. It’s an unspoken contract.” Her voice was bitter. “Why are you here? Is it to rescue me?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she realized how ridiculous they were. She’d betrayed the Committee on every level with her mindless infatuation. “Or to kill me?” she added, a sop to her pride.

“I’m not here for you at all,” he said, dismissing her. “There’s a little task you left unfinished, and it’s taken us this long to get back in. As for you, no one gives a shit what happens to you. It’s been left up to my discretion. I haven’t decided whether to kill you or just leave you here with whomever I leave alive.”

She was cold. The tiles were hard and icy beneath her, the tropical wind swept the sweat from her body, and even the warmth of his skin against her didn’t penetrate. “Why don’t you get the fuck off me and off this island? I have every intention of finishing what I started.”

“Before you fell madly in love

?” he said, his voice an annoying coo. “What’s taken you so long? As far as I can tell, you blew your cover two years ago when he shot you.”

“He didn’t shoot me—one of his men did. And I don’t know how long he knew who I was—Archer is someone who likes to play with his food. He could have known when he married me.” She didn’t think so, but then she didn’t like to think back to those first few weeks when she was so blinded by love and sex.

“And in all this time you haven’t figured out the answers? Who did train you? Madsen is better than that.”

“I was trained by the Ice Queen, and I was trained well.”

“Then you’re just incredibly stupid.”

She couldn’t deny it. “I’ve basically been held a prisoner in my room for the last two years, and for the first year I really couldn’t walk. I haven’t been given a whole lot of chances, and I would have to rely on surprise and talents, since I no longer have any access to a weapon. If we’re going to have a rational discussion, do you suppose you might get off me? I’m not particularly comfortable.”

“I don’t give a damn whether you’re comfortable or not,” he said. “And I haven’t decided whether I’m going to kill you.”

This time she didn’t let his cool words get to her. “If you’re going to kill me, now isn’t a particularly good time, unless you’re ready to finish the mission. For one thing you’d have a hard time getting off the island—the sea is very rough from all the wind and the storm, and I doubt a helicopter could land, if you’ve got that in the offing. Plus, I suspect you’re here for Archer’s beloved Pixiedust as well, and until that old fart Chekowsky shows up, you’re stuck. A dead woman next door or in your bedroom might complicate things needlessly, and I know Committee members are all about getting the job done with the least amount of fuss.”

He looked down at her for a long, silent moment, and then he moved off her, fast and graceful, reaching for her hand and hauling her to her feet. It was a very strange sensation. She hadn’t stood next to anyone in more than two years, and she hadn’t realized quite how tall he was. She could only hope her expression gave nothing away. For some reason she suddenly felt more vulnerable than she had when she was lying beneath him, or looking up at him from her wheelchair.

“Good point,” he said. He glanced out at the slowly lightening sky. “Okay, we’ll talk. You take the bed, I’ll take the chair.”