Wildfire (Fire 3)

She started with the drawers, going through them carefully. Nothing but soft fabric, nothing but the very best, she thought. His boxer briefs and T-shirts felt like silk, and she wondered how they would feel against a body. His body. He’d brought two suits, both tailored, and handmade shirts with no identifying tags on anything—he could have bought them in London, Hong Kong, or Paris. There were even handmade leather shoes on the floor of the closet along with his suitcase. She reached for it, feeling the weight. It felt heavier than an empty suitcase ought to be, and she wondered if she had the time to take it into her room and examine it. Covering the latch with her hand to muffle the sound, she tried to open it. Nothing, of course. The damned thing was locked.

The sudden silence hit her like an explosion, and she froze in place. The wind had finally done its damage—the power was out. No one had ever bothered to check on her in the past when the generator went down, and she doubted they would this time, but the sudden pitch black startled her and she lost her balance, landing on her knees at the edge of the closet.

To her absolute horror she heard sounds from the bed. The faintest of noises as the mattress shifted, the rustle of covers, the sound of a body moving against the five-hundred-thread-count linen sheets. Was he awake, or just thrashing in his drug-induced stupor? In a panic she pulled herself into the almost-empty closet, curling up in a tiny ball behind one of the louvered doors and burying her head against her knees, holding her breath. Nothing. Just a silence and a blackness so thick she wanted to choke on it, she who was never prey to weakness like claustrophobia or heights or blood.

She barely made it. She heard the noise of the mattress, the sound of bare feet hitting the floor, and all she could think was Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, while the man who was supposed to be unconscious rose from the bed. She couldn’t see him, but she figured he must be swaying, trying to regain his equilibrium, and maybe he’d simply pitch forward and black out again. Please, please, please, she implored a God who had so far managed to ignore absolutely everything she’d asked of him, be it sparing her parents’ lives or warning her that she’d been wrong about Archer. Silence had answered the first request, a bullet in the back the second. Don’t let him find me, she found herself begging, hating herself for her weakness.

He didn’t do a face-plant beside his bed. Instead he walked slowly from the alcove where the bed was, moving toward the bank of closets, but this time he didn’t stumble, this time he didn’t smash anything or knock it over. Had he recovered that q

uickly? Impossible. On the rare occasion she took one Vicodin, it made her groggy as hell the next day, all without putting a dent in her pain. He couldn’t be resistant to the amount she’d fed him.

He was coming closer to the closet, and she shut her eyes tightly, stupidly, feeling that if she couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see her. He was humming again, and then the door to the closet was shoved closed, squeaking noisily, shutting her inside.

He moved on, and she heard him in the bathroom, the sound of running water, still with that damned singing under his breath. And this time he didn’t sound the slightest bit out of it.

She found she was biting her lower lip so hard she was drawing blood, and she forced herself to stop, to take a deep, silent breath. He’d get back in bed, and when he fell asleep the drugs would take over again, and she’d be able to sneak out. Maybe even take the mysterious suitcase with her—she could put it back before he woke up. He’d be none the wiser.

For a long time she heard absolutely nothing, cocooned in her darkness. Had he fallen asleep in the bathroom? Had he left the room? She couldn’t hear anything at all, not the sound of his footsteps, not the quiet suspiration of breath. He might as well be dead.

Mal had to be as much of a soulless monster as Archer, or close to it. He would be no loss. But if she killed him, it would have to be hand-to-hand, and despite her justified confidence in her own skills, a man with the body like that could best her. Not only because he was taller and heavier, but also because, clearly, he could withstand far more pain than she’d ever had to bear, even with her gunshot wound. Hand-to-hand and she’d be dead.

She needed a gun, though she had no idea where she was going to get one. No matter how many pills she dangled in front of Marco, he wouldn’t swallow any kind of an excuse to get her a gun, and she hadn’t run across anything in this room.

Though there was always the suspiciously heavy suitcase.

There was still no sound from the room beyond. She couldn’t stay in the closet forever—it would get light sooner rather than later, which would make getting back to her own bed even more difficult. Rachel would check on her, and if she found the bed empty and the wheelchair abandoned, all hell would break loose. She moved, slowly, silently, trying to peer beyond the louvered doors, and felt the first trickling of relief. He was back in bed—she could see the shape of his body through the slats of wood. He was unmoving, dead to the world, and all she could hope was that the last little bit of crushed drug had finally reached his system.

There was nothing in the closet she could use as a weapon if she were wrong. An Italian leather shoe wouldn’t do much damage no matter how hard she hit with it. She could throw the suitcase at him, but that wouldn’t buy her anything more than a few seconds. With someone as drugged as he should be, a few seconds might even be enough, though she’d rather not count on it. If she had to run for it right then, there were way too many obstacles. The island was small, and unless the wind had died down the seas would be too rough for her to even attempt to cross them.

Her muscles were cramping—she hadn’t given herself enough time to cool down properly after her training—and when she tried a small, surreptitious stretch her hand knocked against the wall. It was a very quiet thud, but she froze. This was the test. If he was out of it, he wouldn’t have heard her. Please God, let him be out of it.

The figure on the bed didn’t move. Instead, there was a choking noise and then a very loud snore, and Sophie sank back in relief. For once it appeared that God was listening.

She slid onto her knees, staring at the shadowy outlines of the suitcase in frustration. In daylight she could pick the lock, see what was inside, read any papers that might identify him. In the smothering darkness, though, there was nothing she could do but get the hell out of there as quickly and quietly as humanly possible. There would always be another time.

Her cramped limbs gave a silent protest as she rose to her feet, still hunched over in the closet. She pushed one of the doors open just a crack—thank God Archer insisted on everything being in top-notch condition. There was no betraying creak of the hinges. Mal lay still on the bed, and she pushed the door wider.

Still no movement. The door to the terrace was open, though the strong night winds were stirring the curtains, providing a blessed bit of noise to cover her. She pushed the door the rest of the way, and stepped out onto the cool tile floor.

The arms that came from behind her clamped around her like iron bars, slamming her back against a hard body, and she exploded like a crazy woman, fighting, kicking, using every dirty trick she could think of. She wrapped her leg behind him, pulling them both down, and they were rolling on the floor, thrashing, struggling in the inky darkness, all in a desperate silence where the only sound was her heartbeat and tightly controlled breath. He made no noise at all, not when her knee missed his balls but landed hard in his stomach, not when she bit his arm to make him release her, bit so hard she could taste blood, but his hold didn’t weaken. She was strong, she was fighting for her life, but he was bigger, stronger, and she knew—she’d already known—that Malcolm Gunnison was too powerful for her. In frustrated fury she sank back against the floor, her nemesis straddling her, holding her down, and she stared up into his eyes, wishing she could rip her hands free so she could claw at him.

They had ended up over by the French doors, and the faintest light was coming in, heralding the approach of dawn. She was panting silently, her heart racing. He was totally relaxed, his head tilted to one side as if examining some exotic species. “Why, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said, his mocking voice a mere thread of sound. “Holy Mary, it’s a miracle.”

Chapter Ten

Sophie stilled the last of her struggles, sinking back against the hard-tiled floor in defeat. “Get the hell off me,” she whispered furiously.

He pressed in harder, holding her down with his hips, his shoulders, his legs keeping hers still. “I don’t think so.” His voice was a breath of sound. “I’m comfortable enough.”

“I’m not.”

“Tough. I want answers.”

“Go to hell.”

“Yup,” he said succinctly, and for a moment she was silenced.

He wasn’t that heavy. She was completely immobilized, his hand was holding her arms over her head, and she considered slamming her forehead against his, but he stayed far enough out of reach that it wouldn’t be that effective. She wanted to growl in frustration. “What do you want?” she finally demanded.