Wildfire (Fire 3)

She sat up, checking out her room in the murky light. The door to the terrace was closed, blocking out the sunshine, and the air-conditioning was on high, chilling her skin. She felt a strange combinat

ion of exhilaration and exhaustion, of fury and something that was dangerously close to happiness. She knew her body still bore the marks of Mal’s hands on her, despite all her ruthless scrubbing. She could still feel him inside her—why did that sensation last, taunting her?

She lay back down again, listening carefully for sounds from the room next to her. She couldn’t hear a thing, but then, she wouldn’t. Mal knew how to be silent—he was the epitome of the perfect Committee agent. Ruthless, cold-blooded, impossible to catch. He had no emotions, no weaknesses as far as she could tell—except, perhaps, for lust. There was no other reason last night would have happened, at least the part he had initiated. Mostly he’d been intent on getting in her way while he pursued his own agenda. Maybe last night had simply been part of a plan to keep her off balance and out of his business.

She could have died last night because of that stupid gun, and he hadn’t cared. He’d rescued her, but it probably had more to do with keeping his cover than any concern for her. He was a merciless, heartless bastard.

And yet . . . he’d shoved her behind him when he thought Archer was going to find them, and he’d carried her into his room, not hers, held her when he should have set her down and sent her on her way.

Most of the operatives she’d known would have simply gotten rid of her by now. The Committee had been a tight ship when she’d gone through her abbreviated training, and she’d learned enough to know that no one risked a mission over collateral damage. If someone or something posed any threat to the successful completion of your job, you got rid of it. It was that simple, that necessary, and that brutal.

The room looked just as she had left it. The door to the balcony was still locked, her wheelchair by the side of her bed. It seemed as if it were about a foot farther away from her than usual, but she could chalk that up to the semi-dazed state she’d been in, awash in sensation and guilt and fury, and a powerful, physical satisfaction, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Rachel would appear by eight, bringing fresh fruit and some repulsive oatmeal that she conscientiously ate every morning. Pancakes, she promised herself. With real Vermont maple syrup. Assuming they had the real thing in Mexico or Louisiana or wherever she ended up once she got off this island. And bacon. She could smell it cooking sometimes, wafting up from the kitchens, but none had ever appeared on her breakfast tray. Archer had never particularly liked bacon—that should have tipped her off to what a bastard he really was. He probably had Elena cook bacon just to torment her.

Maybe she’d cook bacon sometime for Mal. Maybe she could sneak into his room . . . no! She closed her eyes in disgust. She’d truly lost her mind. She needed to get the hell out of here. If she went back into his room, it wouldn’t be bacon she was looking for, and it would have nothing to do with what she’d end up doing again. Unless she ate bacon off his hard, flat stomach and . . .

She flopped back down on the bed, covering her flushed face with a pillow. Maybe she could just smother herself—it would be a kinder, gentler death. She even allowed herself a quiet groan, muffled by the pillow. If the microphones picked it up, Archer could make of it what he wanted. She was too tired, too screwed up, to worry about it.

When she woke again it was past eleven, and even in the cold room she was sweating. She knew why, but she refused to think about it. Erotic dreams were not her responsibility, and there was nothing she could do about them but stay awake, and that would wreak havoc on her training. His mouth hadn’t tasted of bacon. It had tasted of sin, of darkness, of pure delight.

Something she was never going to taste again. She shoved her hair back, then levered herself into the wheelchair, ignoring the odd shakiness that her too-vivid memories had left her with. Her skin prickled, and she knew she was flushed.

She needed a cold shower. Picking up the telephone, she was shocked to hear nothing but silence. Someone had turned off the on-island phone network. It wasn’t the electricity—the air conditioner was still humming away. She rolled herself over to the door and opened it, coming out onto the upper hallway overlooking the main floor.

“Hello?” she called. “Elena? Joe?”

There was no answer. She could see outside now, through the tall windows of the main floor, and it was unnaturally dark, stormy, wind lashing at the trees. Maybe the weather had taken out the phone system—the infrastructure on Isla Mordita was the best money could buy, but under such primitive, private circumstances, money couldn’t buy much.

She glanced back at Malcolm’s room. The door was open, and he had to be gone as well—otherwise he’d probably be out there, taunting her. At least he wouldn’t have any idea what she’d been thinking about—small blessing.

There was no way she was going to find out what was going on in the suddenly silent house without getting her body downstairs, and there was only one way to do it.

She’d discovered a great trick early on—she’d picture herself a Disneyfied mermaid, her legs encased in an immovable tail whenever she had to do things that might be observed. Locking the wheelchair, she carefully picked up one foot and then another before flipping up the footrests, then sliding out of the thing and onto the floor. Chances were Archer was somewhere watching this whole production, delighting in her awkwardness. He probably had Malcolm with him, and when she got to the bottom of the wide, winding stairs he’d appear, applauding.

There was always the possibility Archer had abandoned her. He’d done it before, always without warning, but people had been left behind. She had the curious feeling that the island was completely deserted, but she knew how unlikely that was. After all, she was Archer’s toy, like a catnip mouse for him to bat around and then ignore when he wasn’t interested. Archer never gave up anything willingly, and he certainly was never going to let her go. Sooner or later he planned to kill her, and even though a few long years had passed, nothing had softened him, nothing had changed him. He was still the sadistic megalomaniac he’d always been, back when she’d been too stupid to recognize it.

She never did anything that would give away her condition except in total darkness, and despite the strong winds and cloudy skies it was still bright enough for Archer’s myriad cameras to catch her in the act. Scooting on her butt, she slid down to the first step, dragging her legs with her as she leaned back against the balustrade.

By the time she reached the ground floor she was covered with sweat. And then she remembered she’d left the fucking wheelchair at the top of the landing. Shit! She should have pushed it down the stairs and hoped for the best. The damned thing was made of titanium, and it probably would have been fine. Now she was stuck at the bottom with no way to get around but dragging her virtual mermaid’s tail with her.

She tried calling out. She tried screaming. No one answered, though the sound of the wind through the trees probably drowned out her voice. She heard a sudden great crack of thunder, so loud that it shook the house, and she screamed like a baby, immediately ashamed of herself, as the lights flickered and went off.

She sat back against the bottom stair, taking a deep breath. It was November—the hurricane season should be just about over. They’d only been hit once, when she and Archer had been newly married, and everyone had left the island for safety, coming back to find almost the entire place flooded except for the old sugar mill at the top of the hill.

Was that it? Had there been hurricane warnings and Archer had left her here alone to drown? If so, it was a piss-poor method of murder, she thought, irritated. The water had covered the island, all right, but it hadn’t reached the second floor of the old house. It would take a category 5 to do that, and those were few and far between, and certainly not at the tail end of the season—that or a tsunami.

Of course, with this brewing storm, now was the perfect time to abandon her. No one with any sense would set out in a boat until this thing passed—she didn’t need guards to keep her here. She was well and truly trapped.

With a sigh she leaned forward, dragging herself toward the kitc

hen. The servants’ sleeping quarters were on that side of the house, as well as Archer’s private little cadre of bodyguards. If there was anyone left on the island, they’d be back there.

I never would have made it as an actress, she thought as she reached the end of the massive dining room. No doubt she would have been very good—she could lie with the best of them—but the physical demands were a pain in the butt. Once she got off this island, she never intended to sit down again.

Once I get off this island, once I get off this island. As a mantra it wasn’t as calming as it usually was. The food, the sex, the myriad wonders a free life presented her—all were seeming more and more distant. Maybe, given her track record, she should just give up sex entirely. She seemed to have very bad taste in men, if she’d been besotted with one psychopath and was currently tormented by sexual longings for a ruthless operative.

Of course, that was ignoring the fact that she’d intended to be the same kind of operative, though she’d had delusions of helping the world, not just getting the job done. And she wasn’t lusting after Malcolm. So they’d had sex, twice. The first time he’d initiated it, the second time she’d taken back the power and gone down on him. She wanted to do it again, when it was something she’d always done out of duty, never desire. She was vulnerable, no matter how hard she tried not to be, and it was no surprise she was feeling totally fucked, physically, mentally, and emotionally.