Wildfire (Fire 3)

She released a loud, breathy sigh, focusing all her attention on him, vaguely aware that Mal was observing all this. “Oh, could I?” she said. He was most likely calling her bluff, but she couldn’t afford to risk it. She could put up a convincing front for short periods of time, but trapped with him in a bedroom would end with one of them dead, and even if it was Archer, as she assumed it would be, her own death would follow shortly if she hadn’t had time to firm up her escape. “I would love it so much, but I would need some help.”

Archer waved that away with an airy hand. “Joe can carry you anywhere you need to go,” he said.

She could feel Mal’s eyes boring into her, but she kept her eyes focused on Archer. “I have my period, and I can’t really take care of things . . .” She let herself trail off, loving the shade of green that Archer turned.

Mal made a choking sound that could have been surprise. It might even have been laughter. She turned to him, but his face gave nothing away. “I’m sorry to be indelicate at the dinner table,” she said, “but these are things you simply have to deal with when you’re confined to a wheelchair.”

It had been laughter. She didn’t know how she knew it—he gave no outward sign, but she was sure of it. If she had any doubt, his lift of his almost-empty glass in a small salute confirmed it. He drained the last few drops, and ignoring her misgivings, she felt satisfaction move through her.

“Perhaps you’d better be in your own room tonight, where you’ll be more comfortable,” Archer said hastily.

Squeamish bastard, she thought with mild triumph. It would serve him right if his prudish tendencies brought him down.

She arranged her face in lines of stricken disappointment. “You’re probably right,” she said reluctantly. She dared another glance at Mal, wondering how long it would take for the pills to start working. “In fact, I should probably go up now. Could you call Joe?”

She expected Mal to jump to his feet, countermand the request, and swoop her up in his arms. He didn’t move, thank God. She didn’t like being held by him. She didn’t like his strong body, his arms, touching her, the feel of his heart beating against her skin.

“Joe!” Archer bellowed, startling Sophie, and a moment later the big man appeared. “My wife is ready for bed. Take her upstairs and see that one of the women . . . er . . . takes care of her. Send Rachel,” he added with a trace of malice.

Sophie wasn’t sure who the malice was intended for—her or Rachel—and she didn’t much care. “You’re very sweet,” she said, then allowed herself one last glance at Mal as Joe picked her up.

Always the gentleman, Mal rose, and Archer followed suit, grumbling as he threw his napkin on the table. Mal was looking a little glassy-eyed, she thought happily. The pills were already working. Maybe, for once, things would really go her way and he’d pass out downstairs, sleeping it off on one of the big sofas. It didn’t matter—either way she could easily search his room without him being the wiser, maybe finding a clue as to who and what he was. She’d ke

pt enough of her training to know how to successfully toss a room, and if there was anything there to find, she’d find it.

At least she could try. “Good night, gentlemen,” she said. “Thank you for the dinner and conversation.”

Archer nodded, not seeing through her veiled barb, but Mal didn’t miss it. “I’m afraid we ignored you,” he said in an attempt at smoothness that came out slightly slurred.

“Nonsense,” she said. “I loved the company.”

Archer came over toward her, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Always a delight, baby. Sweet dreams.”

Malcolm Gunnison said nothing, blinking at her, and Sophie let Joe carry her up the stairs like a dog who’d retrieved a pilfered bone.

Mal didn’t come up to bed for more than two hours. Sophie had done her exercises, and then lay on the smooth bathroom floor, waiting for the sound of his footsteps. If he wasn’t up by four, she was going to risk it and go in there on her own. She kept drifting off, then jerking awake in sudden terror, and she was about to give in when she heard him stumbling up the broad, curving stairs, mumbling to himself. No, singing to himself in a sort of monotone. She tried to make out the words. She almost hoped it would be “If I Only Had a Brain” but instead it was an off-key rendition of . . . good God, it was a Springsteen song that took her a moment to recognize, particularly with his slurred lack of melody. “Tougher Than the Rest.” Is that what he thought? She was about to prove him otherwise.

She levered herself into bed. No one had come to help her with her nonexistent menstrual needs, and indeed, the women on the island knew she managed to take care of them herself, but no one would dare discuss such things with Archer. It was a very dark night—a storm was coming in, obscuring moon and stars, and the wind whipped through the palm trees, shaking them to their foundations. She’d left the door to the balcony open—the sounds of the weather would keep her movements unnoticeable.

In fact, the power was likely to go out, and when it did even the million-dollar generator Archer had installed was unlikely to kick in without someone, probably Marco, trudging through the rain and wrestling with it. It never worked well with a high wind—an ongoing problem that she only hoped would happen tonight. Her night vision was like a cat’s, whereas anyone else might be at a complete disadvantage. She wouldn’t need a flashlight, though with the amount of drugs she’d given Mal, she could probably shine one directly in his eyes and he wouldn’t notice.

She lay perfectly still. She could hear him stumble around the room, swear, then stumble again—followed by an ominous crash. She held her breath, wondering if he’d passed out, but a moment later she heard him again, sounding like some kind of drunken bear, thrashing and cursing.

Eventually all was silence. The wind made listening problematic, but she could tell he was definitely passed out. Whether he’d made it as far as the bed or was stretched out on the floor, he was definitely gone. She counted to a hundred, in Spanish and then in French, just to give herself enough time, and then slid out of the bed. Everything was coming together perfectly—the approaching storm would cover anything she did.

She moved across the floor like a ghost, her bare feet silent. She was wearing a T-shirt and boxers—she’d left behind the flowing negligees Archer had insisted on. She planned to change before Rachel came in the morning, but in the meantime she could move freely, and it was glorious.

It was almost cold out on the balcony, but Sophie ignored it. She’d been fully prepared to pick the lock to his door, but he’d left it open, and even in the darkness she could see his shape stretched across the bed, unconscious.

One chair was overturned, a small side table broken and splintered, and pieces of clothing lay strewn across the floor. She took another fast glance at him, then sucked in her breath. He was wearing boxer briefs, nothing more, and she should probably count her blessings. He’d likely been in the midst of stripping completely when he passed out, and no matter how much of her training she clung to, it would have been distracting. It was already bad enough.

She’d seen him in the ocean from a distance, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the shadows in his room she could see him quite clearly. He had the kind of body that hid its strength—his muscles were lean and tight, his skin smooth. He had the body of a dancer, not a weight lifter, someone with power and grace that was both gorgeous and lethal. She stood in the doorway, looking at him, watching his chest rise and fall, cataloging the scars. He’d lived a violent life—that was no surprise. She knew the starlike scars a bullet left, she recognized the healing pink line from knife slashes, and she recognized the even patterning of torture. Who the fuck was he? And whose side was he on?

She needed to find out, and soon. He’d removed all his surveillance equipment—Joe had told her that with a kind of wonder that Archer let him get away with it—and once she stepped into the room she was off the radar. She took a step down.

His breathing was slow, deep, drugged. She moved over toward him, silent as a ghost, and watched him, barely breathing herself. His face gave away no secrets, even in his sleep. His too-long hair had fallen across his eyes, and she wanted to reach out and brush it away. She did no such thing. She was a statue, watching, looking for any sign.

And then she let out a slightly audible sigh of relief, and he still didn’t move. Even if the worst happened and he came to, he’d be so drugged he wouldn’t remember. But she might have given him enough to kill a horse. She just hoped it wasn’t enough to kill him.