Wildfire Page 11

  So why was she so obsessed with him? There was something beneath his enigmatic exterior that nagged at her. It wasn’t the threat of violence—that was all around her, in the air she breathed, in the life she’d chosen years ago when she’d been young and smart and invulnerable. It wasn’t the unexpected moments of gentleness. No one in Archer’s life was who they presented themselves to be to the world, and she’d grown used to that, having played her own role for so long. But Mal was different. She knew it instinctively, and she intended to find out why.

  The smart thing to do would be to ignore him, just as she’d ignored Archer’s earlier imports. She had no illusions that Archer had brought Mal here simply to mess with her—Archer didn’t care that much. Archer and Mal had some nefarious business going on, probably Archer’s hideous biological weapon she wasn’t supposed to know anything about. The question was, did Mal have his own agenda as well?

  If he did, it would have nothing to do with her. No one even remembered she was alive, or if they did, they didn’t care. Her parents had died in a plane crash when she was in her teens, and Aunt Sylvia, who’d looked after her, died of emphysema not long after Sophie graduated from Sarah Lawrence. She’d had friends in college, friends in the State Department, but they’d gone on to have their own lives, and she’d been ordered to lose touch with them once she joined the Committee.

  The Committee would have purged her from its records. No one gave a damn whether she lived or died, and she knew Mal’s occasional glances had less to do with her and more to do with what his real plan was.

  It wouldn’t be easy. He had to have known Archer’s men would search his luggage and his room at regular intervals, and she’d have a hard time finding out anything about him. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try.

  He was matching Archer drink for drink, and the more he imbibed the more scrupulously polite he became, while Archer just got sloppy. She knew Archer well enough to know he wasn’t as drunk as he appeared to be, and she would have been willing to bet ten years of her life that neither was Mal. Then again, the way things were going, she wouldn’t have another ten years, so that would be an easy bet.

  But no one had a hollow leg, and there had to be some effect from the amount of rum he was tossing back. All she had to do was get some of her pain meds into him and he’d be out like a light, giving her the chance to search Mal’s rooms with him none the wiser.

  She had some with her—when she’d discovered Marco’s affection for Vicodin she’d made it a habit to tuck some of them into a wad of tissue and keep it in her bra in case she had a sudden need to barter. How to get it to Mal was the problem. The men were ignoring her, but she could hardly reach over for his glass and toss a handful in.

  But in the end it had come together with such ease that it was almost laughable. A trip to the bathroom, a sullen Rachel pushing her, gave her enough time and privacy to crush the handful of pills she had into a fine powder. She scooped every trace back into the tissue, keeping it in her hand as Rachel took her back, the wheelchair bumping over the thresholds and the slate flooring. When she returned to the dining room, Archer and Mal were out on the terrace, watching the dark, roiling clouds of the approaching storm.

  Rachel, of course, sailed right past her, out to the men, her sullenness vanishing in a cloud of vivacity like strong, cheap perfume, and Sophie didn’t hesitate. Mal’s glass of fruity liquid was still mostly full, and she tipped the powder into it before heading back to the opposite side of the table, just before the men came back in. She was relatively certain she had blocked the security camera trained on the table, but in the end she was just going to have to risk it.

  Most of life was a matter of luck and timing. Mal and Archer could have moved out onto the sand, finished with dinner and finished with her. They could have come back and switched to brandy or coffee, or Mal could have sensibly declared he’d had his limit of the sweet, fruity drink Elena had come up with at Archer’s behest.

  But Mal had come back in, as Archer’s nonstop banter accompanied him, and when he took his seat, the first thing he did was pick up his frosty glass. And then his eyes met hers over the rim.

  Sophie felt an unexpected stab in her stomach. Could that huge amount of painkillers prove lethal on top of all the alcohol he’d consumed? Or more likely the amount of acetaminophen in the Vicodin could destroy his liver or his kidneys or whatever dire thing too much of the drug did. She couldn’t let herself worry about it. She was in a fight for her life, and she had to use whatever weapons she had.

  “Sophie, baby!” Archer said in a booming, slightly slurred voice, catching her attention, and she gave him her best smile, taking a masochistic pleasure in the pain it caused her jaw.

  “Yes, my love?” she answered, all dewy sweetness.

  “I think you should spend the night down here for a change. It’s been so long since we’ve shared a bed.” Most people wouldn’t see the malice in his eyes—but Sophie couldn’t miss it.

  She released a loud, breathy sigh, focusing all her attention on him, vaguely aware that Mal was observing all this. “Oh, could I?” she said. He was most likely calling her bluff, but she couldn’t afford to risk it. She could put up a convincing front for short periods of time, but trapped with him in a bedroom would end with one of them dead, and even if it was Archer, as she assumed it would be, her own death would follow shortly if she hadn’t had time to firm up her escape. “I would love it so much, but I would need some help.”

  Archer waved that away with an airy hand. “Joe can carry you anywhere you need to go,” he said.

  She could feel Mal’s eyes boring into her, but she kept her eyes focused on Archer. “I have my period, and I can’t really take care of things . . .” She let herself trail off, loving the shade of green that Archer turned.

  Mal made a choking sound that could have been surprise. It might even have been laughter. She turned to him, but his face gave nothing away. “I’m sorry to be indelicate at the dinner table,” she said, “but these are things you simply have to deal with when you’re confined to a wheelchair.”

  It had been laughter. She didn’t know how she knew it—he gave no outward sign, but she was sure of it. If she had any doubt, his lift of his almost-empty glass in a small salute confirmed it. He drained the last few drops, and ignoring her misgivings, she felt satisfaction move through her.

  “Perhaps you’d better be in your own room tonight, where you’ll be more comfortable,” Archer said hastily.

  Squeamish bastard, she thought with mild triumph. It would serve him right if his prudish tendencies brought him down.

  She arranged her face in lines of stricken disappointment. “You’re probably right,” she said reluctantly. She dared another glance at Mal, wondering how long it would take for the pills to start working. “In fact, I should probably go up now. Could you call Joe?”

  She expected Mal to jump to his feet, countermand the request, and swoop her up in his arms. He didn’t move, thank God. She didn’t like being held by him. She didn’t like his strong body, his arms, touching her, the feel of his heart beating against her skin.

  “Joe!” Archer bellowed, startling Sophie, and a moment later the big man appeared. “My wife is ready for bed. Take her upstairs and see that one of the women . . . er . . . takes care of her. Send Rachel,” he added with a trace of malice.

  Sophie wasn’t sure who the malice was intended for—her or Rachel—and she didn’t much care. “You’re very sweet,” she said, then allowed herself one last glance at Mal as Joe picked her up.

  Always the gentleman, Mal rose, and Archer followed suit, grumbling as he threw his napkin on the table. Mal was looking a little glassy-eyed, she thought happily. The pills were already working. Maybe, for once, things would really go her way and he’d pass out downstairs, sleeping it off on one of the big sofas. It didn’t matter—either way she could easily search his room without him being the wiser, maybe finding a clue as to who and what he was. She’d ke
pt enough of her training to know how to successfully toss a room, and if there was anything there to find, she’d find it.

  At least she could try. “Good night, gentlemen,” she said. “Thank you for the dinner and conversation.”

  Archer nodded, not seeing through her veiled barb, but Mal didn’t miss it. “I’m afraid we ignored you,” he said in an attempt at smoothness that came out slightly slurred.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I loved the company.”

  Archer came over toward her, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Always a delight, baby. Sweet dreams.”

  Malcolm Gunnison said nothing, blinking at her, and Sophie let Joe carry her up the stairs like a dog who’d retrieved a pilfered bone.

  Mal didn’t come up to bed for more than two hours. Sophie had done her exercises, and then lay on the smooth bathroom floor, waiting for the sound of his footsteps. If he wasn’t up by four, she was going to risk it and go in there on her own. She kept drifting off, then jerking awake in sudden terror, and she was about to give in when she heard him stumbling up the broad, curving stairs, mumbling to himself. No, singing to himself in a sort of monotone. She tried to make out the words. She almost hoped it would be “If I Only Had a Brain” but instead it was an off-key rendition of . . . good God, it was a Springsteen song that took her a moment to recognize, particularly with his slurred lack of melody. “Tougher Than the Rest.” Is that what he thought? She was about to prove him otherwise.

  She levered herself into bed. No one had come to help her with her nonexistent menstrual needs, and indeed, the women on the island knew she managed to take care of them herself, but no one would dare discuss such things with Archer. It was a very dark night—a storm was coming in, obscuring moon and stars, and the wind whipped through the palm trees, shaking them to their foundations. She’d left the door to the balcony open—the sounds of the weather would keep her movements unnoticeable.

  In fact, the power was likely to go out, and when it did even the million-dollar generator Archer had installed was unlikely to kick in without someone, probably Marco, trudging through the rain and wrestling with it. It never worked well with a high wind—an ongoing problem that she only hoped would happen tonight. Her night vision was like a cat’s, whereas anyone else might be at a complete disadvantage. She wouldn’t need a flashlight, though with the amount of drugs she’d given Mal, she could probably shine one directly in his eyes and he wouldn’t notice.

  She lay perfectly still. She could hear him stumble around the room, swear, then stumble again—followed by an ominous crash. She held her breath, wondering if he’d passed out, but a moment later she heard him again, sounding like some kind of drunken bear, thrashing and cursing.

  Eventually all was silence. The wind made listening problematic, but she could tell he was definitely passed out. Whether he’d made it as far as the bed or was stretched out on the floor, he was definitely gone. She counted to a hundred, in Spanish and then in French, just to give herself enough time, and then slid out of the bed. Everything was coming together perfectly—the approaching storm would cover anything she did.

  She moved across the floor like a ghost, her bare feet silent. She was wearing a T-shirt and boxers—she’d left behind the flowing negligees Archer had insisted on. She planned to change before Rachel came in the morning, but in the meantime she could move freely, and it was glorious.

  It was almost cold out on the balcony, but Sophie ignored it. She’d been fully prepared to pick the lock to his door, but he’d left it open, and even in the darkness she could see his shape stretched across the bed, unconscious.

  One chair was overturned, a small side table broken and splintered, and pieces of clothing lay strewn across the floor. She took another fast glance at him, then sucked in her breath. He was wearing boxer briefs, nothing more, and she should probably count her blessings. He’d likely been in the midst of stripping completely when he passed out, and no matter how much of her training she clung to, it would have been distracting. It was already bad enough.

  She’d seen him in the ocean from a distance, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the shadows in his room she could see him quite clearly. He had the kind of body that hid its strength—his muscles were lean and tight, his skin smooth. He had the body of a dancer, not a weight lifter, someone with power and grace that was both gorgeous and lethal. She stood in the doorway, looking at him, watching his chest rise and fall, cataloging the scars. He’d lived a violent life—that was no surprise. She knew the starlike scars a bullet left, she recognized the healing pink line from knife slashes, and she recognized the even patterning of torture. Who the fuck was he? And whose side was he on?

  She needed to find out, and soon. He’d removed all his surveillance equipment—Joe had told her that with a kind of wonder that Archer let him get away with it—and once she stepped into the room she was off the radar. She took a step down.

  His breathing was slow, deep, drugged. She moved over toward him, silent as a ghost, and watched him, barely breathing herself. His face gave away no secrets, even in his sleep. His too-long hair had fallen across his eyes, and she wanted to reach out and brush it away. She did no such thing. She was a statue, watching, looking for any sign.

  And then she let out a slightly audible sigh of relief, and he still didn’t move. Even if the worst happened and he came to, he’d be so drugged he wouldn’t remember. But she might have given him enough to kill a horse. She just hoped it wasn’t enough to kill him.

  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.