Wildfire (Fire 3)

“Just kidding, old man,” Archer said airily. Did men really call each other “old man” nowadays? Mal asked himself. It seemed to him that Archer was playing some sort of role too. “I would have found another way to make you like it here. I don’t give up once I set my mind on something.”

Mal looked at him. It sounded like a tossed-off sentiment, but Mal wasn’t fooled. Archer would do anything to get his way, and beneath that upper-class, Ivy League charm, he could be absolutely ruthless. “Neither do I,” Mal said.

Their eyes met for a moment, predator to predator, and there was a moment of stillness. Then Archer spoke. “I would have expected nothing less from a man in your position.” He lifted his head, and all seriousness vanished. “I think my wife has decided to join us.”

Mal had heard it too—Joe’s heavy breathing on the winding steps, the hush of wheels against the tiled floor. Sophie was bringing the battle to them. He gave a half smile. “Good. No offense, old man,” he used Archer’s archaic term deliberately, “but I’d rather look at her face than yours.”

“There is something about her,” Archer admitted. “You should see her when she’s dressed up—she can be quite stunning. A far cry from the slightly bedraggled and worn-out invalid she is now.”

Mal couldn’t imagine someone looking less bedraggled or worn out. He surreptitiously touched his bruised side, remembering her knee. “I thought you were trying to talk me into fucking her.”

Archer’s grin widened. “Are you interested?”

“I might be.” Mal’s voice was flat, giving nothing away.

Archer was almost gleeful. “Actually that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m going to need you to take care of that today.”

Mal raised an eyebrow, keeping his expression unruffled. “Why?” he said calmly.

“I’m worried about her,” Archer said mournfully. “You saw her bruises. I hate to tell you, but those were self-inflicted. I caught her just in time. She’s so anxious and depressed about being in the wheelchair that she’s about reached her limit. I need you to screw the shit out of her.”

That was a pathetically weak reason, and Mal wasn’t about to hop to it. The man Archer knew didn’t take orders. “I don’t have a magic dick, Archer. She’s your wife—why don’t you fuck her into a good mood?”

“Oh, I would. But I have this little problem.” He made a face. “I was less than careful during a recent business trip, and I’m afraid I’m a bit under the weather, so to speak. Nothing antibiotics won’t cure, but Sophie’s immune system is compromised because of her condition, and even with a condom I couldn’t take the risk.”

Jesus, Mal thought. “What makes you think I don’t have similar or even worse problems?” he drawled.

“Do you?”

“No.” He was tempted to lie and say he had herpes, but that probably wouldn’t make any difference. Archer wasn’t going to be taking Sophie to bed again—Mal could read the signs. Sophie was on borrowed time, and only his arrival had stopped her eventual execution. “What makes you think she’ll even have me?”

“Oh, I’ve seen the way she looks at you. We agreed after the accident that that part of our marriage was over, but she still has needs. She’d have you if you aren’t too squeamish.”

“Squeamish?” he echoed, then realized Archer was referring to Sophie’s supposed disability.

But Archer wasn’t. “A tiny show of force might be necessary.”

“You want me to rape your wife?” Mal was good at hiding his reactions, but this time it was called for.

“Oh, it wouldn’t go that far. I told you, she wants you. You’re the only thing she’s shown the slightest bit of interest in for years. I think that’s what brought her to . . . hurt herself. Your arrival made her realize everything that she was missing . . .” Archer paused for dramatic effect, secure in the belief that Mal was swallowing all of this. “Either you have to give her what she needs, or I’ll make other arrangements for the Pixiedust.” He smiled like a saint. “I have to put my wife’s well-being ahead of business, old man. You understand.”

Mal kept his gaze on the horizon, his mind working feverishly. Why would Archer be fixated on this, so much so that he was willing to risk his current deal? Of course he had other clients, but Archer should think twice about offending Mal’s purported boss, one of the most powerful men in the world. It seemed that Archer was still dangerously obsessed with his treacherous wife and his need to punish her. If he weren’t, he would have finished the job he’d started two years ago and had her killed. Keeping her alive was illogical—his need to torment her was a weakness Mal

could exploit. Too bad that Sophie was a pawn between them, but she’d known what she signed up for when she’d first joined the Committee. That it was worse than she’d expected was no one’s fault but her own.

“I understand,” he said finally, not turning to look at Archer. “My employer is not the kind of man who accepts failure.”

“Then you know what you have to do.” Archer’s voice was practically a purr of satisfaction, and Mal felt his stomach twist. Right then the last thing he wanted to do was put a hand on Sophie MacDonald, even as the possibility of her thrummed through his body. She’d bitch, she’d scream, she’d bite. And she wanted him, a fact that he knew filled her with disgust. He hadn’t spent so long in the business without being able to read people, and he knew she was frustrated with her own mixed feelings.

His were mixed as well. She was a dangerous woman and he was far too susceptible to her. If he fucked her, he wouldn’t be able to kill her, and that might just turn out to be a necessity. His hatred for Archer had reached immeasurable proportions. The fact that Archer had practically ordered him to screw his wife, something Mal wanted very much, only made it worse.

What if this was all a setup? What if Archer and his former-Committee wife were working together on a way to trap him? If his cover had been blown, why hadn’t Archer had Mal killed?

He rose in one fluid motion. There was only one way to find out. “Lead the way.”

She was sitting curled up on the sofa, exactly where Malcolm had first seen her, though without Archer draped all over her. The wheelchair was discreetly off to one side, and she looked at home as she smiled up at her husband, the bruise at the side of her face already fading. “Hello, darling,” she said, and Mal had the oddest impression she was greeting him, not her husband. Not that she’d call him “darling.” More likely “you son of a bitch.”

“Baby!” Archer breathed, moving forward to kiss her cheek. Her bruised one, and he kissed it hard. Sophie didn’t even blink. She reached up for him, but Archer deftly pulled away. “You look like a dream sitting there, my love, but I have a few things to check on. I had no idea you felt up to joining us for lunch.”