Wildfire (Fire 3)

Chapter Fifteen

At least Sophie had the good sense to stop struggling, to remain absolutely still in his arms, Malcolm thought, and he slowly moved his hand from her mouth. She knew better than to make a sound, particularly when the scrape of the iron furniture against the stone patio screamed in the night.

He shifted his hold, gripping her wrists together in one hand while he tucked the handgun in the back of his jeans. At least now he knew that she wasn’t playing him—she had been more than ready to shatter Archer’s skull, and a part of him was sorry he couldn’t let her do just that. But his temporary fury with Archer had faded—too much was riding on this mission, more than simple revenge.

He crowded her into the corner of the nearest door, one that was still closed to the warm night air, and pulled them behind the floor-length drapes. If Archer had heard that quiet click, if he decided to turn on the lights and search the room, then their hiding place wouldn’t last, and Mal might have no choice but to terminate his host, leaving the job half-finished. But he wasn’t ready to give up yet.

Sophie was scarcely breathing, unmoving in his arms. Unmoving except for the occasional stray shudder that vibrated through her. If they got away with this tonight, they were going to have to have a long conversation when they found a place without surveillance. Archer had planted a new bug in his room, one Mal had decided to leave in place. He was better off with Archer thinking he knew what was going on. Besides, the Committee had had that technology for a couple of years now, and he knew there was no microphone. He could say any damned thing he wanted, as long as things looked right.

Archer came into the large living room, his sandaled feet shuffling. He had a drink in one hand, and he appeared to be half in the bag. Archer could hold his liquor better than anyone Mal had ever met, but right now he didn’t know he had an audience. There was no need for him to act sober if, in fact, he wasn’t.

Except they’d made enough noise to rouse him from his position on the chaise, exactly where Mal had left him two hours earlier, though he’d had Kirsty servicing him noisily. Mal had never been into voyeurism, and the sex going on in front of him simply reminded him of Sophie—Sophie, whom he wasn’t going to touch again if he could help it.

And yet here he was, wrapped around her like a fur coat, his dick hard, pressing into her. She was probably too freaked to notice, which was just as well. He had every intention of keeping it in his pants unless he had a damned good reason not to.

Archer turned on the table lamp next to the suffocating sofa, humming to himself, and Mal cursed inwardly. If Archer suspected something, it wouldn’t take him long to find them. Or he might be smart and call for reinforcements. Either way, they could be royally screwed.

Which brought him back to Sophie again, breathless against his body. If they got out of this current mess, maybe he would screw her again. The problem was that then they couldn’t pretend they didn’t want to do it. Sophie had come twice and hated him. If they didn’t have an excuse she might not be able to take what she wanted. What he wanted. What they needed.

Her skin was warm in the night air. She wasn’t wearing much—the same sort of outfit she’d worn when she’d crept into his room the previous night, thinking she’d managed to drug him into a stupor. She was far too naïve, but then, she’d been thrown in the deep end before she’d been ready. If she had a few successful missions under her belt, she’d be more careful about rushing into things.

He pulled her tighter against him. He needed to be ready to shove her behind him if Archer had a gun, but as far as he could tell, Archer hadn’t been carrying the entire time he was here. He relied on others to do his dirty work.

So far Archer hadn’t summoned Joe. Mal could see him through a crack in the curtains, and his host was simply standing there, weaving slightly, as he turned his head and looked up at the stairs.

He was considering paying his wife a visit, Mal thought with a controlled, deadly fury. He must be jonesing for her pretty bad if he was going to risk offending his guest. Mal had insisted he wouldn’t share Sophie with her husband, and he’d said it more to annoy Archer than anything else, but the moment the words left his mouth, he knew he meant them. Archer wasn’t going to touch Sophie, not now or ever again.

To his relief Archer turned away, wandering toward the kitchen, and a moment later he was out of sight. Sophie wriggled slightly in Mal’s arms, assuming they were home free, but he simply tightened his grip, keeping her still.

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With good reason. Archer reemerged from the kitchen, a plate of food in one hand. He sank down on the enveloping couch and began to eat a sloppy, overstuffed sandwich, and Mal sighed inwardly. Sophie had gone from feeling warm to being cold all over, her body vibrating, and he needed to get her away from here before she lost it. She’d psyched herself up to kill Archer, and the sudden letdown was making her woozy. He really didn’t want her collapsing in his arms.

Then again, that would be the smartest thing to do. If Archer found them, he could say he’d been carrying her downstairs for a little sex in unexpected places.

Archer leaned back in the sofa, sinking into it, leaving half his sandwich on the plate. If he fell asleep there, it was going to be tricky to get back upstairs. Mal could do it with no problem, but not lugging Sophie. She’d gone from occasional tremors to shaking, and he knew the signs of someone going into shock. He was going to have to cover her mouth again if her teeth started chattering. He couldn’t even whisper calming words—Archer was too close, and stroking her might get the opposite reaction. He had no choice but to hold her in the iron circle of his arms and hope to Christ that Archer decided to go to bed.

It was another five minutes before his patience was rewarded. Archer rose, his gaze sweeping around the shadowed room, then fixating once more on the graceful staircase. Then, to Mal’s relief, he turned and headed for his bedroom.

Mal waited another five minutes. If it had been him alone, he would have stayed for an hour, but Sophie was leaning against him, letting him support her, and he needed to get her out of there as soon as he could. With a silent profanity that was half curse, half prayer, he picked her up in his arms and moved to the stairs.

No one popped out from behind a door, no lights flooded the place. He took the steps three at a time, easy enough with his long legs despite the weight in his arms, and a moment later they were on the landing, and he had to decide on the safest place to take her. Her own room was still bugged, and that one camera in his place was focused on the bed. He pushed his own door open, silently, easing her through it, prepared to subdue her if she realized where he was taking her and decided to fight him.

Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care. She was trying to catch her breath—difficult when she didn’t want to make a sound—and he carried her straight through his bedroom, skirting the range of the camera and taking her out into the night air on the balcony. Not the best choice for someone nearing shock conditions, but he’d have to find other ways to make her warm.

He sank down in one corner in the darkness, well out of range of the cameras, still holding her. She immediately tried to scramble away from him, but he had no intention of letting her go, and his hold tightened to just this side of painful. Maybe it went over a bit, because her soft mouth tightened in a grim line.

“Stay still,” he breathed, hardly any sound on the night air. “You almost fucked everything up royally tonight, you idiot. I need a moment to get my breath and my temper back under control.”

She stopped struggling, probably not because of his words, but because it was useless. He could feel when her body calmed, when the heat began to return to her skin. He could have released her then, but he didn’t want to.

“You fucked with the gun,” she said finally in a low voice that only held a faint tremor. “I know it worked before—I broke it down and checked it. What did you do, take the firing pin?”

“The classics are the still the best,” he said. “I couldn’t risk having you kill Archer before I’d finished my mission, and I wasn’t going to give you the chance to put a bullet in me.”

She had to be feeling better—her eyes were filled with fury. “Then why give me the gun in the first place? I know you did—you’re too good to leave weapons so easily available. You also know that you never point a gun unless you intend to use it, and having one that was tampered with could have gotten me killed. Maybe you enjoy games the way Archer does.”

He told himself that particular jab didn’t sting. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”