Wildfire (Fire 3)

“Say what?” Mal said in a slow voice, his mind working feverishly.

“I think we need to pay a little visit to my laboratories. There’s a late-season storm brewing, and if we hesitate, we’ll be stuck here. If you’re worried about Sophie, don’t. This place is perfectly safe in the worst of storms, and Sophie’s fine on her own. I go off all the time,” Archer assured him. “There’ll be enough people left behind to look after her, and she enjoys the time alone. You want to get your business dealt with, don’t you?”

Mal said nothing, considering things. He wasn’t in the mood to abandon Sophie, though as long as Archer was with him she was probably better off. The question was, why was Archer suddenly determined to leave the island? Who was in the most danger, him or Sophie? Maybe both of them. Archer had thrown them together, but he clearly hadn’t liked the results. He’d be even more pissed by what they’d done tonight. Mal didn’t think there was any way Archer could have seen or heard anything, but it wasn’t wise to underestimate someone like Archer MacDonald.

“I would have thought this whole business deal would be over and done with by now anyway,” Mal growled, deciding slightly sullen would work well.

“Don’t say you haven’t enjoyed yourself, Mal, old man,” Archer chided him. “And I’m hoping once we find out what the holdup is with Chekowsky, you might come back. You seem to have enjoyed my wife yesterday, which I admit surprises me. She was never that good in bed.”

Mal refused to rise to the provocation. He shrugged. “Maybe she needed someone else to inspire her.”

Archer’s conspiratorial grin froze for a moment. “She was in love with me.”

Past tense, Mal thought. “I’m sure she still is,” he said, sounding bored. “If we find your man and conclude the deal, why would I bother to come back?” He damned well had every intention of coming back, but it wouldn’t be wise to seem too amenable.

Archer made a face. “Haven’t I been a good host? I’ve offered you anything you could want, including exclusive rights to my own wife. Consider it a vacation.”

Why the hell would Archer want him back? More of his game playing? Or maybe he’d decided he really didn’t like bartering his wife after all. If Archer was planning to kill him, then it wouldn’t make sense for them to go away, any more than it would for him to return. Archer could get one of his men to put a gun to Mal’s head no matter where they were. “I don’t take vacations.” His voice was neutral.

“Well, you should,” Archer said cheerfully. “Life’s too short not to be enjoyed, and I expect you work very hard for the no doubt impressive amounts of money you get paid.”

Malcolm said nothing, just watched him.

“Besides, just because we’re checking in on Chekowsky doesn’t mean he’ll be ready to part with his project. He’s a perfectionist and a pain in my ass, but in the end I find it better not to rush him. If there’s a time limit on your offer, then perhaps we ought to just forget about it—as you can imagine, I have a great many other people interested in Pixiedust . . .”

So it’s a game of bluff, is it? Malcolm thought, trying not to react to Archer’s obnoxious name for the deadly poison. He had no doubt at all that there were any number of offers on the table, nor did he think it likely that Archer would sell such a powerful weapon to only one plutocrat or dictator. Archer would do his best to sell it to everyone he could, all the time swearing it was exclusive.

“There’s no time limit,” Mal said. “I don’t have anywhere else I need to be right now.” He paused. “And I enjoyed fucking your wife.”

Archer beamed at him, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He had something planned, though Mal couldn’t begin to know what. He only knew that it would be extremely unpleasant and most likely involve Sophie as well. At that point there was nothing Mal could do but go along with things and watch very closely.

“Good enough!” Archer said. “The boat should be ready by now. Grab a few things and we’ll go.”

He had to see Sophie before they left. “It’ll take me a few minutes . . .”

“No, it won’t. Rachel’s here to take care of things—all we need to do is head down and get settled and the others will follow. Nothing to worry about,” Archer assured him.

Mal looked Archer squarely in his guileless eyes. He didn’t want to go, which was crazy. He needed to stick to Archer MacDonald, and leaving Sophie behind was probably the best thing he could do for her. So why the hell was he so reluctant? Why was he determined to make his way back here, even if Archer and his fucking Pixiedust were terminated?

There was no way he could justify it. Even if he finished Archer and managed to either turn or kill the scientist, then he needed to get back to New Orleans and make his report. Sophie had made her own bed—she’d probably already had a plan to get off the island on her own. If he and Archer were gone, she’d have an easier time of it, and he wouldn’t have to deal with her getting in his way while he tried to take care of business. She would have fucked everything if he hadn’t tampered with the Beretta. Once they were off the island, he probably wouldn’t have to see her again.

Wouldn’t have to worry about her either, though there was no earthly reason why he should. Peter Madsen or Matthew Ryder in the New Orleans branch would want to make sure the island was cleared and secure, and they would see to getting Sophie off there if she hadn’t already found her own way.

It had nothing to do with him. She was a distraction, a dangerous one. In the end, she wasn’t any of his business, and the brutal truth was that he was a killer, not a rescuer. He couldn’t afford to feel anything for anybody, and Sophie was acceptable collateral damage, given her fuck-up three years ago. He really didn’t give a shit, he told himself, ignoring the faint queasiness in his stomach.

He gave Archer his cynical half smile. “I wasn’t worried,” he said, pushing back the covers and climbing out of bed. He always slept naked, but he was already used to Malcolm’s interested gaze, and he quickly pulled on his clothes, ignoring him. “What are we waiting for?”

Archer grinned widely. “Excellent!” he said, slinging his free arm around Mal’s shoulders. They were about the same height, six foot two, but Archer was bulkier, seemingly stronger, and for a moment Mal considered twisting around, wrapping his own arm around Archer and snapping his neck. Stupid idea—there were too many people in the house who’d put a bullet in him before he heard more than the satisfying crunch.

Malcolm managed a cool smile. “Whatever,” he said, and allowed Archer to pull him out toward the stairs, bypassing Sophie’s door. She was probably listening to every word, doing a little dance of excitement at getting rid of both of them. She was probably ready to celebrate never seeing him again, ready to forget all about the time in the boathouse, the time on the balcony.

She could think whatever she wanted. Right now he had to get down to business, get the mission finished, and then he could decide what he wanted to do with her.

For now he had to stick to business.

Chapter Seventeen

Sophie woke up with the feeling that something was desperately wrong. It was six, too early, and she lay still, trying to remember why everything felt so messed up. Life had been a shitstorm for three years—why would today be any more complicated? And then she remembered.