Wildfire (Fire 3)

“What is?” came Sophie MacDonald’s voice from the doorway. She knows how to make an entrance, even in a wheelchair, Mal thought. She would have been taught that when she worked for the Committee, even if her training had been incomplete.

“We’re just making a small wager on when Chekowsky will show up,” Archer said without hesitation. “It might not be till next week.”

Her eyes met his, warm-brown and steady, and Mal breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously she hadn’t heard their discussion. Not even the best operative could cover up a reaction to something like that, and this was the husband she seemed to adore, the man she’d thrown away her career and the trust of her friends for. “And what did you guess, Mr. Gunnison?”

“Mal,” he corrected. “I said in the next couple of days.”

She tossed back her hair and he watched her, allowing himself to observe her in full daylight. Last evening he’d been circumspect, and during his late-night reconnaissance there hadn’t been enough light to see clearly, but now that he seemed to have promised his host that he’d bang his wife, he figured he could look at her all he wanted. She was prettier than he’d realized, even with shapeless hair, and that wide mouth of hers gave him all sorts of nasty thoughts. She was wearing a flowing sundress, the skirt covering her body. “For your sake I hope he’s here sooner,” she said, not meeting his gaze.

“Chekowsky has his own timetable,” Archer advised Mal. “He’ll show up when he’s ready. Sorry for the wait.”

Mal allowed himself a small, feral smile, just for Archer’s sake. “Then I’d better find something to keep me busy,” he said softly.

Archer’s conspiratorial grin was answer enough.

Chapter Six

Sophie was so furious she wanted to throw up. She kept her hands in her lap to disguise their shaking. Eavesdropping was one of the few weapons she had at her disposal, and she used it at every possible moment. So the elegant Malcolm Gunnison thought he was going to do everyone a favor and fuck her, did he? At least it was good to know that Archer still thought she adored him. Keeping that sweet, slightly stupid smile on her face took tremendous effort, but she managed as she rolled up to the table, taking the cup of coffee Mal handed her.

She took a sip, and the blessed bite of Sumatran caffeine almost softened her rage. She wasn’t particularly worried—if she was going to play that she was still in love with her husband, then she wouldn’t be interested in sleeping with someone else, part

icularly if she had no feeling below the waist.

Sex hadn’t even been an issue up to that point. For the first year she’d been in too much pain, and after that she’d lost interest entirely, despite Archer’s malicious temptations. The longer she was celibate the easier it was, and right then she’d rather screw a warthog than any of the damned men on this island.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Mal asked in an offhand voice, but Sophie wasn’t fooled. As a seductive overture it was fairly bland, but he hadn’t offered to do anything for her before, aside from helping her dress. At least his attempts to be charming could be a distraction, and she’d be long gone before push came to shove. There was no way she would go to bed with him, doubtless with Archer watching, just to shore up her cover. The Committee had insisted the operatives be above such qualms, but that was where she’d failed. She’d thought herself in love with Archer, that he loved her in return, and she’d been beating up on herself ever since she realized the truth about him.

She looked up at Mal through her eyelashes. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said in a deliberately dulcet voice. “Just some toast and orange juice.”

His mouth tilted in a faint smile. “You really ought to try some of this fruit creation Archer ordered.”

“Yes, darling,” Archer chimed in. “It’s so good you’ll feel like dancing. If it weren’t for that damned chair, of course.”

Just one of Archer’s usual barbs—he seldom let a conversation pass without reminding her that she was a cripple. She arranged her features into a doleful expression. “Remember I’m not supposed to drink, not on top of all the pain meds I take.”

“What do you take?” Malcolm asked.

She glanced back at Mal. If only he weren’t so different from Archer’s generic handsomeness. In another life, another world, she might even be tempted by Malcolm Gunnison. His green eyes were almost iridescent—she’d never actually seen that color in real life, and his mouth was wickedly distracting. She had no idea why she was so fascinated by him—he wasn’t the most lethal, the most charming, or the most beautiful man that Archer had brought to the island, trotting them in front of her to see if she’d bite.

She’d never been tempted before. But the inescapable and unpleasant fact was that ever since she’d heard her husband solicit Malcolm’s services, a small part of her brain had been trying to come up with an excuse to let it happen.

She was going stir-crazy, and the only surprise was that it hadn’t hit her sooner. She’d never been at the mercy of her hormones in the past—while her sex drive had been healthy, her passion for Archer had been as emotional as it had been physical, blinded as she’d been to Archer’s true nature. She’d seen him as she wanted him to be, not as he was.

Maybe she simply needed to get laid. If she had any sense, the first thing she would do once she got away from here would be to go to a bar and pick up the most gorgeous man she could find to work off the years of frustration. Maybe not conventionally gorgeous, though. Maybe someone who looked a little like Gunnison.

“I don’t have any pills to spare,” she said shortly, reminding herself that Malcolm wasn’t going to be that man.

“I wasn’t asking,” he replied lazily, his green eyes drifting over her. They gave absolutely nothing away. “I’m just curious what kind of pain you’re in.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t want to tire you out.”

That was enough to shock her. Surely he wasn’t going to come right out and tell her what Archer had suggested?

Apparently not, if Archer’s choking sound was anything to go by. “How do you think you’re likely to do that?” she said in an arch voice, ignoring her husband. “I’m not about to go hiking around the island with you, no matter how bored you are waiting for Archer’s other guests. I take Vicodin and occasionally Percocet. They control the pain and I sleep very well.” Might as well make it clear that she had no idea he’d been scouting her room last night.

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Mal said.