Wildfire (Fire 3)

Archer laughed. “So you don’t fuck and tell? I can respect that. I’ll have a nice, quiet afternoon with my wife. I’m looking forward to seeing if Sophie learned any new tricks. I can just . . .”

“No.”

Archer looked startled. “What do you mean, no? She’s my wife. I loaned her to you, I didn’t give her away. As a matter of fact, I look on this as a onetime deal, and I intend . . .”

“No,” Mal said, his calm voice belying the rage that filled him. “You offered her to me and I took her. She’s mine for as long as I’m here. I don’t like sloppy seconds.” He had no idea whether this was going to work or not, he just knew he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. If he had to, he’d kill Archer there and then—to hell with the Pixiedust.

There was a long, tense silence. Archer was still seated, seemingly at ease, but Mal could sense the sudden strain of violence in the air, and he didn’t give a shit. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Then he almost laughed. He was ready to do what Sophie had done three years ago—throw everything away because of Archer MacDonald. Granted, he was motivated by a primal hatred, but there was still an ugly similarity. Archer knew how to get to people in any way he could.

And Mal did laugh. “You wouldn’t deny me, would you, Archer? You’ve been so intent on being the perfect host.”

Archer’s dangerously still face relaxed into an easy grin. “Of course. There’ll be plenty of time once we’ve concluded our business and you’re on your way.”

“Plenty of time,” Mal agreed companionably. “In the meantime, feel like a swim?”

“Certainly,” Archer said promptly. “We needn’t bother with suits. Tell me, did you use a condom? Surely that’s a reasonable question from an anxious husband.”

It was a challenge—the motive behind a sudden urge for nude bathing was obvious. Too bad Archer was going to feel inadequate. “Uncertainty makes life so much more interesting, don’t you think?” Mal said, unzipping his jeans and dropping them on the terrace. “Coming?”

Archer surveyed him, not bothering to hide his curiosity, and his mouth tightened in annoyance. “My, my. It’s probably a good thing my wife is numb from the waist down. I’m not sure she’d find that thing comfortable.”

Typical of Archer to start a conversation about a man’s dick. “Do you have a tape measure?” Mal drawled.

Archer laughed, all signs of irritation vanishing. “I wouldn’t bother. I know when I’m outgunned, so to speak. It’s just a good thing Sophie is so madly in love with me, or I might be jealous. I’m not worried—you’re supposed to be a temporary distraction, something to break the tedium. She and I will have plenty of time to get reacquainted after you leave.”

Archer wasn’t happy, Mal thought. For some reason he wasn’t going to push the issue, but Mal was going to have to watch his back. Not that there would be any change in how he handled things around Archer MacDonald. “A big dick never got in the way of true love,” he said. Except Archer was the big dick, despite what he had between his legs. Mal didn’t even glance at him when Archer dropped trou. There were a lot of ways to measure a man, and the size of his dick was one of the least reliable. Setting his sunglasses on the table, Mal started toward the surf, bypassing the warm pool. Wading out, he dove through the first big wave, slicing through the salt water with strong strokes. He needed to get clean, let the clear gulf water wash away his guilt. Wash away the dirty feeling Archer always left him with. He needed to rid himself of any trace of Sophie and what they’d done together in the boathouse. He just didn’t want to.

By the time Archer joined him he had two naked women with him—Rachel of the plastic tits and someone Mal pretended not to remember, a wannabe actress with the name of Kirsty. He ignored them, even though he could see Archer giving Kirsty whispered instructions, and Mal could swim farther, longer, than any of them could. When Kirsty let the waves knock her lithe body against his, reaching between his legs, he simply swam out even farther. He’d been a competitive swimmer in college, he’d crossed the English Channel seven times in the dark as part of his training, he was strong enough to withstand riptides and deadly currents. In fact, he’d figured his best way off the island would probably be to swim—the coast of Mexico was only twenty-seven miles away, and remarkably free of dangerous tides except during hurricane season. He should have no problem.

He just hadn’t counted on carrying a woman with him.

At least she could kick, he thought as he tread water out beyond the swells, his shin still aching a bit from one of Sophie’s own kicks. His best bet would be to bring a tether with him when she got too exhausted to swim anymore. Whether he liked it or not, he wasn’t going to leave her on this island, no matter what she’d done. He’d come to that conclusion an hour ago, a day ago, the first time he saw her. It didn’t matter what the smart thing to do was, it didn’t matter whether he could trust her. Hell, he didn’t trust anyone.

But he’d bring her out with him. Because.

Archer and the women weren’t making any attempt at joining him out in the deep, and he floated there, looking at the wide stone house in the distance. What was Sophie doing? Probably doing her best to scrub every trace of him from her skin, from inside her body. He remembered the look on her face when she came, the soft, hitching sound of her breath. She should know it wasn’t going to do any good—she could never wash him away. This game was far from over.

He waited until Archer gave up and headed back to the terrace with his women, waited until the shadows grew deeper and lights began to come on. Sophie’s windows didn’t look out over the ocean—she’d have to be out on the terrace to see him, but he knew she was there, watching. What was she thinking about? Probably ways to dismember him. He’d have to watch her—her emotions were raw after their encounter in the boathouse. Someone had made a major mistake in recruiting her. She was strong, inventive, able to withstand years of abuse, but she was also too human, and it was too easy to prey on her emotions. Her misguided passion for a waste of oxygen like Archer MacDonald had put her into this mess, and her reactions to Mal were fucking her up even further. He’d

recognized it and acted upon it, because humanity and mercy weren’t in his vocabulary. And because he’d wanted her. He’d take her down if he had to, and he could do it without a qualm.

It remained to be seen how she reacted after she calmed down. So they fucked—it wasn’t as if it was the first time for her, and she’d wanted it as much as he had. Scrap that—for some reason it had seemed as if he’d never wanted anyone as much in his entire life.

Rules didn’t apply in this business. He wouldn’t have raped her, but he knew he wouldn’t have to. He still might have to kill her—would she prefer death before dishonor? He let out a humorless laugh, floating on the swells, feeling his body being drawn out deeper and deeper.

What if he just let go? Forget about Sophie, let the current take him, stop trying to control a hard, vicious life full of betrayal and murder and despair? He knew the currents in the area—he’d studied them during those weeks in New Orleans, just in case he had to make a swim for it. If he did, he’d need to leave from the west side of the island, near the old sugar mill, and head toward the mainland if he were to have any chance of making it. If he headed north toward the U.S., he’d run into the Coast Guard and drug runners. East was Europe, and that wasn’t about to happen no matter how good a swimmer he was. And heading farther south, the way he was going, would get him into stronger riptides, ones he couldn’t fight against.

He turned in the water, looking out over the endless horizon. Next stop would be the Yucatán Peninsula if he went straight—some six-hundred-plus miles. He’d never make it, and he wasn’t sure he gave a damn. But he couldn’t leave Sophie behind, even if it was the smart thing to do.

She’d probably laugh if he told her that. Those warm brown eyes would grow hard with distrust, and he wasn’t in the mood to convince her when even he wasn’t sure why he wasn’t ready to ditch her. He just knew he couldn’t.

He turned back, his gaze settling on the balcony terrace where he knew she was waiting, watching him, probably hoping Jaws would pop out of the water and eat him in one gulp. Sorry, sweetheart, he thought. I’m not done yet.

He started back toward the distant shore, his long arms slicing through the water. Not done yet, the words rattled in his brain. Not done yet.

Sophie rolled the wheelchair away from the railing. Once Mal got close enough, he’d know she was watching him, and she wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction. She wasn’t going to give him anything.