Wildfire (Fire 3)

Her eyes widened, and this was no feigned reaction. He felt a little shiver run over her warm body, and it wasn’t disgust. “I’m afraid that’s something I don’t have much interest in.”

“Don’t you, now?” His voice was a deliberate taunt, and he shifted slightly, just enough to bump softly against her body. He felt her shiver again, and her skin was warm. She smelled of body heat and gardenia-scented soap, and he wondered what would happen if he licked her exposed throat. Probably an elbow in the other kidne

y. He smiled at her benevolently. “You’re in a bad mood, aren’t you? I think you need your coffee. Should I summon Elena?”

“With a princely clap of your hands? I don’t think so,” she said. “Elena’s busy enough.”

“So you’d rather just sit here and cuddle?”

It was enough to get her moving. “If you’d be kind enough to get me my wheelchair, I can go get my own coffee.”

He considered it. On the one hand, having the soft cushions imprison her against his body was definitely inspiring—he was half-tempted to see how far he could go with the cameras rolling. He knew women—even the toughest ones—changed once they’d screwed someone, and he was very interested to see what Sophie would do once he’d gotten inside her. All in the interests of the mission, you virtuous bastard, he told himself. After all, what could Archer do to him if he refused? He was unlikely to jeopardize his relationship with a man like Mal’s supposed employer. But the damned thing was, Mal wanted the excuse, wanted a reason to touch her, to take her, to fuck her.

That was probably part of the secret to Archer’s unimpeded accumulation of wealth and power. He knew exactly what someone wanted, deep inside, and he got it for them, guilt-free. Which meant the very last thing Mal should do was touch Sophie.

With little effort he got to his feet, and she immediately fell over on the buoyant cushions, glaring at him as she pushed herself upright again. “In fact, I need a cup of coffee myself,” he said.

He could absolutely see the wheels turning in her gorgeous, angry brown eyes. She wanted him to go away, but then she’d be trapped on the billowy sofa and he could come back at any time. He didn’t wait for her to decide, he simply retrieved her wheelchair and brought it to her, setting the locks. He started to lean down to pick her up but she reared back.

“I can get out of this damned thing myself,” she said in a steely voice.

“I have no doubt you can. From one damned thing to another.” He scooped her up anyway, clamping her tight enough against him that he kept her elbow from slamming into his ribs, and deposited her in the chair. He knelt down in front of her, arranging her supposedly useless feet on the rests, and he knew how very much she wanted to kick him. He looked up at her from between her legs, and he didn’t have to say a word, just simply put his hands on the armrests. She could read his thoughts, and she inadvertently tightened her thighs, a movement so subtle it wouldn’t be picked up by the camera. He kept his Malcolm Gunnison face on, impassive. Rising, he leaned forward and unlatched the brakes, his head close to hers as he did so. He shouldn’t. A smart man wouldn’t. And he knew damned well he was going to.

“We need to talk,” he said on a breath of sound.

She wanted to curse at him, he could feel it. She wanted to tell him to get the hell away from her. She even wanted him between her legs. Poor little girl, she’d landed herself in a big mess and she didn’t know how to get out of it. And then she tilted her head back, so that their mouths were dangerously close, and smiled up at him, a steely challenge in her eyes. “Coffee is an excellent idea,” she said. “You can push me.”

Bastard, bastard, bastard, Sophie fumed as he rolled her into the kitchen. There was no longer any question in her mind—she was going to kill him too, once she’d finished with Archer. It didn’t matter that he was Committee—he was probably just as much a danger to her as Archer was, and it would be self-defense. Justifiable homicide. A well-deserved execution.

The kitchen was deserted. “Penny for your thoughts,” Malcolm said as he planted her in the middle of the big room, too far from any surface to find a weapon like a butcher knife or a heavy frying pan.

“I was thinking of ways to kill you,” she said in a low voice.

He gave a surreptitious glance around him. “No surveillance in here?”

She wasn’t going to help him. “You figure it out.”

His half grin made her want to smack him. But, then, she already wanted to kill him—that was nothing new. “Two cameras, one trained on the door to the dining room, the other on the door to outside. Bugs in the same places—there’d be too much noise going on in here to have something ultrasensitive. So we’re relatively unwatched. Where do you think Elena is?”

She stifled her irritation. Of course he would have checked the place out—he was Committee, after all. In another lifetime she might have admired how efficient he was. “She’ll probably walk back in at any time.”

“She’s probably having a nice long siesta. Archer went to a lot of trouble to get rid of everybody—I’m sure he told her not to bother with lunch today.”

“You willing to take a chance on that?” she challenged him.

“Yes.” He took the kettle, poured out the water and refilled it, then set it on the stove to heat.

“There’s a coffeemaker and an espresso machine.”

“There’s also a French press, and I’m a purist.”

“Oh, God help me,” she muttered.

“He hasn’t so far.” He reached for the tightly sealed container of oily black beans. “If you’re in a hurry, I can make you one of those infernal pods.”

She didn’t want to accept anything from him, but the lure of French press coffee was irresistible. Too much about him was. She needed to learn how to resist. “I can wait,” she said in a grumpy voice.

She could see the brief flash of amusement in his eyes. “I’m sure you can.” He took out the coffee grinder, and she realized he’d already made a complete surveillance of the kitchen—he even knew where all the implements were. She unfastened the wheel locks and slid back, out of his way, farther out of the way of the cameras, and watched as he went about the ritual of coffee making in a charged silence. She needed to watch him, observe him, see if she could pick up anything about him that might help her, just as she’d been trained to do, but she wished she didn’t have to. He moved so elegantly, with an economy of grace that belied the sheer power in his deceptively lean body. She’d felt that strength, the intractable nature of his hold, and the memory sent her stomach churning with mixed emotions. There was nothing wasted in his movements—it was all quick efficiency. She already knew he was too strong for her in straightforward combat, even with dirty infighting. Her only chance would be to take him by surprise.