Mal didn’t rise from the bench. “I wouldn’t think of leaving her,” he said, managing to sound almost indifferent. “I’ll bring her back up to the house and meet you in the pool room.”
Archer snorted but didn’t look displeased. “That wheelchair is just about solid gold, but it doesn’t go up the path nearly as well as it goes down, and she’s going to be bumped all to hell if you try it. Joe’s a bull—he won’t have any trouble, and I wouldn’t want my baby to be in any more pain than she’s already in.”
Only the slightest twitch below her left eye showed she didn’t like being called “baby,” another fascinating bit of information that Archer missed entirely. “Not a problem,” Mal said, rising. “I’ll carry her and Joe can bring up the wheelchair.”
Archer stared at him for a long moment, considering. And then he grinned, flashing his big, perfect teeth in a blinding smile. “You’re a better man than I am. She’s put on a few pounds while she’s been bedridden, and she’s no featherweight.”
Mal checked her out of the corner of his eye, but she didn’t react to that jab at all. “I’m stronger than I look,” he said mildly. In fact, despite Archer’s bulked-up shoulders, Malcolm thought he could probably take Archer easily enough. He was naturally built along lean lines, but that didn’t mean he didn’t possess a deceptive amount of power.
Archer smiled at the two of them impartially. “I’ll tell Joe to take his time,” he said, and disappeared back up the path.
More of his twisted matchmaking, Mal thought, still clueless to the reasoning behind it. He rose, moving toward the chair.
“I don’t mind a few bumps . . .” Sophie began, but Mal simply lifted her up in his arms, holding her against him. Archer was right—she was no sylph, but it felt like muscle beneath the flowing sundress, another interesting observation.
“It’s starting to rain”—he cut her off—“and I’m not in the mood to get drenched.”
She looked at him, her eyes at his level now, though his were still covered by mirrored sunglasses. “Then put me down and run back to the house. I’m waterproof.”
“So am I,” he said, and started up the slope.
Chapter Seven
Malcolm moved up the path without the slightest effort, when the burly Joe would have been panting heavily, and Sophie tried to keep still. The rain had begun to fall in earnest, plastering them both, so that their damp bodies and wet clothes clung together as he strolled toward the house, and she did her best to hold herself stiff in his arms. For some idiotic reason she was tempted to press her head against his shoulder. There was something disturbing about being held tucked against him, his warmth flowing into hers.
She was a tall, strong woman, but he was a tall, much stronger man, and everywhere her body touched he seemed hard as iron. She knew she should push him away, but she couldn’t. There would be no way to break free of his arms, not unless she had the chance to fight dirty, and even then he might be invulnerable. She couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking.
He looked down at her. “Relax. I’m not about to carry you off and have my wicked way with you. You’re acting like my body is poison. It’s not.”
“I’m not used to having men cart me around.” She tried to relax a little bit against him. The more she reacted to him, the weaker her position. She needed to be immune to the effect he had on her, or at least appear to be.
“No? I thought you couldn’t walk.”
She looked into the dark glasses, feeling her self-assurance come back. Here, at least, she could be truthful. “I spend most of the time in my room. When I leave it’s usually Joe who carries me.”
There was the slightest hint of a smile on his mouth. “Joe’s not a man?”
“Of course he is. I mean . . . that is . . .” She couldn’t think her way out of the mess she’d gotten into. She could hardly tell him that he was the only man she’d found attractive in years.
He probably knew, but thank God he changed the subject. “You’ve got freckles,” he said. “Don’t you ever get out in the sun?”
She considered not answering. “Not much. I burn easily.” A lie, but she’d already slipped up. He didn’t need to know that she hated her husband—it would put her in too much jeopardy. “The balcony off my bedroom is in such rough shape they keep the door locked so I don’t accidentally hurt myself.” Of course they did it to keep her imprisoned, but she was talking too much and couldn’t help herself. Breathing fresh air, today and yesterday, was its own painful pleasure. She’d grown so sick of the artificial, regurgitated air of her bedroom that she’d almost forgotten what the sea breeze felt like, tasted like. Maybe that was why she suddenly felt she couldn’t wait any longer to leave.
He said nothing, not even a noncommittal sound, and when they crested the hill, Joe was waiting for them, an unhappy expression on his broad face. He reached for her and for a moment it seemed as if Mal’s arms tightened around her.
Mal let her go without a word. For a moment their clothes stuck together, her sundress against his soaked linen shirt, and then Joe pulled her back, carting her off before she could control her rattled brain enough to utter a polite thank-you. When she glanced back over Joe’s shoulder, Mal was already gone.
Half an hour later she lay stretched across her bed, her eyes drifting closed. It had to be midafternoon, and the rain hadn’t stopped. In the semitropical climate of Isla Mordita the daily rains usually lasted for no more than half an hour, filling the cisterns and leaving everything sunny and bright and newly washed. It was rare when the weather settled in for the entire day, turning the island into a veritable steam bath once the sun came out again.
Today was one of those days when the sun seemed to have disappeared, plunging her large, sparsely furnished room into darkness. She should turn on the light to banish the shadows, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.
Sophie shivered slightly in the cool air. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her wet dress once Joe had taken her from Malcolm’s arms and returned her to her prison, and she knew she ought to find the remote control on her bedside table and at least turn down the air-conditioning, but she was feeling too indolent.
She’d had the oddest feeling that Malcolm hadn’t wanted to relinquish her to Joe, which was, of course, ridiculous. They didn’t trust each other, though she had no idea what exactly he might suspect her of. In fact, any guest of Archer’s would be wise to suspect everyone, and Malcolm Gunnison was no fool.
Neither was she. Archer surrounded himself with criminals, thieves, and murderers, and even the best of the bunch, like Joe and Marco, couldn’t be counted on. If Archer decided he’d had enough of her, she’d have no recourse. Marco liked his pills, but he liked being alive more, and disobeying Archer would put a swift end to it. Joe might be fond of her, but there wasn’t much room for sentiment in his tough old body. He’d spent a lifetime breaking the law, and if he had any softer feelings, they would have disappeared long ago.
Maybe she should think about leaving sooner rather than later and forget about her plan to kill Archer. Someone else would have to take care of it, but she had little doubt it would happen eventually. She shouldn’t risk her sketchy escape plan just for the pleasure of putting a bullet between those baby blues. Even if it seemed to be Malcolm’s brilliant green eyes that kept haunting her.