Wildfire (Fire 3)

Looking back on it over the last years, she’d realized that Archer hadn’t been that good a lover. He’d been more interested in being entertained than putting out himself, and she’d been happy to do it, besotted with him. Why?

She’d never know the answer, and she needed to stop looking for it. It wouldn’t change the past, and she was never going to make that kind of mistake again. Archer would be dead, and the rest would fall into place as it would.

She locked the wheels of the chair and pushed herself up, moving silently toward the door. She opened it, just a crack, and peered into the darkness beyond. All was silent except for the ever-present sound of the ocean. Archer would be downstairs in that huge bed she’d once shared, a fitting place to kill him.

But would he be alone? He never liked to sleep with women—in fact, when they married he’d wanted them to have separate rooms, insisting he was a light sleeper. She hadn’t paid attention to that, and he’d given in with sullen grace, but she thought he was unlikely to have changed in that regard. He wouldn’t like having anyone around when he was asleep and vulnerable, and after discovering his wife had been sent to kill him, he’d be even more wary.

Not that she had any proof that he was behind the attempt on her life. She didn’t need any. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see behind Archer’s sadistic games, guess at the sudden turnaround in her previously adoring husband. As long as they never spoke of it out loud, they could continue this endless dance, and Archer seemed to have a boundless appetite for it. She had had enough.

If by any chance someone was in Archer’s bed with him, she’d deal with it. She wasn’t going to kill anyone else, even the wretched Rachel, tempting as it might be. The only person she really wanted to shoot, apart from Archer, was Mal, but that was irrational emotion, not common sense. With Archer it was cold, deadly determination.

She closed the door silently behind her—if Mal was listening, there was no way he could have heard it. She wished the damned man snored—it would give her some peace of mind. Then again, snoring would be an easy thing to fake, and someone as machinelike as Mal would be able to control even involuntary bodily functions like snoring. The man probably didn’t even fart.

The living room was dark, but there was light coming from the terrace by the pool. The lower she crept on the stairs, the more she could see, and that was definitely Archer’s silhouette on one of the chaises. He’d have a glass of whiskey in his hand—he’d always liked that moment of solitude. It was too nice a way for him to die, but she was past those kinds of considerations. She moved lower, down the stairs.

Archer MacDonald looked out over the inky black sea. The sky was overcast—there were only a few bright stars visible through the clouds, but he liked it that way. There were times when he hated Isla Mordita, the bright, sunshiny smile of the place. There were times when only darkness would do.

He sipped at his scotch and watched the waves roll in, thinking about Malcolm Gunnison’s dick and where it had been. The man was hung—he’d seen the evidence. He wondered whether Malcolm was interested in a little extracurricular activity. Archer had never had a man so well endowed, and the thought was enticing.

Enticing enough to make him forget how pissed off he was. He’d combed through all the surveillance footage and found nothing, just some silent footage of the two of them having coffee in the kitchen before disappearing outside. He couldn’t believe Mal was going to fuck Sophie in the grass—not when he’d ripped out the cameras in his bedroom and was under the mistaken impression that he wasn’t being watched. It had been child’s play to replace the cameras with a newer, smaller, undetectable one, and there was no way Mal would find it. Not unless his employers had access to more advanced technology than Archer did, and that was simply impossible. The one camera, a prototype, gave up in sound quality what it gained in invisibility, and it covered only the bed. Last time he looked, Malcolm Gunnison was sound asleep, on his own, and as far as he could tell Sophie hadn’t made a move in the darkness except for her peculiar bathroom habits. He needed to get some infrared in there—he had a scientist working on that down in Chile—though he sincerely doubted Sophie got up and walked when he wasn’t looking. She wasn’t that good an actress, and he knew the kind of pain she was in. If there was any way she could move, she’d be trying to win him back again.

He took another sip. He couldn’t believe Mal had told him to keep his hands off his own wife. He admired his gall, enough so that he had agreed. Not that he had any intention of honoring that agreement—Sophie was his wife, his property, and no one was going to tell him what he could or could not do with her. With Mal being so tight-lipped Archer couldn’t even find out how severe her limitations were, but he’d assumed he could check via the videos.

Mal had known he couldn’t. The whole point of having him fuck Sophie was for Archer to gauge the extent of her damage, that and humiliating his darling wife. He’d wanted, expected, to

watch, and Mal wasn’t leaving this island until Archer had a good view.

He didn’t stop to think about why it was so important to him—motivations didn’t particularly interest him. He wanted what he wanted, and he set about getting it. It didn’t matter why.

He’d been trying to watch Sophie in bed for two years now, and she’d shown no interest at all in the men he’d brought in. That was one reason he’d come to the conclusion that she really did love him, despite her treacherous lies. She wanted nothing more than to get back in his bed, and she wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardize that possibility. Oh, she knew better than to make the first move—she realized that deformity and disability disgusted him, and she would know she’d be rebuffed.

Now he was thinking he just might try her out. Mal had certainly looked well served. Oh, it wouldn’t be the way it used to be. For one thing she was a cripple, though he could always use her for blow jobs. He could even see if something could be done for her condition. He’d cut off all doctors, determined to make her suffer, but now that time had passed, there might be things they could do. It would be nice to have her wait on him, eager for his approval. He could get her to do all sorts of things she’d refused in the past.

Maybe he’d take Mal away for a while, give Sophie a chance to think about things. A little deprivation might do her some good. He’d abandoned her before, and Chekowsky’s absence was growing tiresome. He could pack up the household and take them away, leaving her alone and helpless on Isla Mordita. After all, what could she do? They’d take the big motor yacht, though he’d never been able to manage a decent crew out of his various employees. Mal looked like someone who knew how to sail, and the Sophia was a responsive boat. He would have changed the name to Traitor if it weren’t bad luck—Archer wasn’t particularly superstitious, but he preferred not to tempt fate.

He’d even taken the boat out on his own for the sheer pleasure of it. This island was making him edgy; everything was getting on his nerves. Normally he wouldn’t have visited Sophie as he had yesterday while they had a guest in residence. It could bring up too many questions, and he planned to have a great deal of fun with her once Mal concluded his business and disappeared.

But yesterday he hadn’t been able to wait. It had been a need, driving him, and his pleasure had been so absolute that it had taken Kirsty only two good sucks to get him off later on. He hadn’t decided if he wanted to hurt Sophie again, to punish her, or if he was in the mood to forgive her. He was feeling positively sentimental. It was probably Sophie’s slightly dazed, “I’ve been royally fucked” look. Made him think of old times.

No, taking a break might be just what he needed, at least until he decided what he planned to do with Mal. He wanted to watch the man fuck his wife. He wanted to cut the man’s throat.

There was no reason he couldn’t do both. Clearly the two of them had enjoyed their little tryst in the forest—it shouldn’t take much to get them to do it again in view of a camera. He’d always wanted to watch—now the promise of violence between the two of them was even more enticing.

He just had to decide exactly what it was he wanted. And then it would be his for the taking.

Sophie checked the gun before she reached the bottom step. Her bare feet were cold on the stone floor, but she didn’t mind. It reminded her she was alive, that her body worked, and that she could do this. She edged toward the doors that were open onto the terrace, very, very slowly, following the circumference of the room to avoid casting any telltale shadows. Archer was alone out there, nursing his drink just as she’d suspected. A creature of habit was always easier to take down, Isobel, the woman who had trained her, once had told her. Someone who thought he was invulnerable made it close to child’s play. This was going to be a piece of cake.

The only thing that would make it better was if she’d had a silencer. She halted for a moment, considering. There was such a thing as a poor man’s silencer—she could filch a potato from the kitchen and cram that onto the barrel of the gun. That, or take one of the pillows from the curving sofa in the middle of the room, but that might ruin her aim. She needed to be precise, deadly, if she had a chance in hell of getting away with it, and she definitely preferred it that way. She’d already spent enough of her life as a martyr.

Three of the four doors facing the pool and ocean were open—Archer was by the farthest one. She stopped at the edge of the first and checked her sites. His head was just above the edge of the chaise, and it would be an easy shot from that relatively close range. She could even get off a couple of rounds, just to be sure, before throwing the gun away and racing back upstairs. She wasn’t worried about fingerprints or gunpowder residue. As long as she didn’t have the gun in her possession, no one would really give a damn.

She raised the gun, slowly, silently, taking in a deep, steadying breath, and aimed it at Archer’s head, carefully cocked it, and pulled the trigger.

The only sound was a very audible click.

The arm that shot around her was so fast and strong she couldn’t fight back. Her hand went numb, she was slammed back against a hard body, and then a hand covered her mouth, silencing any noise she might be fool enough to make. She didn’t resist. The Beretta had been sabotaged, and there was only man who could have done it. The man who had given it to her, the man who held her.

Malcolm Gunnison.