She glanced over at it. He’d piled pillows in the middle of the mattress so that it would look like he was still asleep, and she’d fallen for it. She couldn’t even think of how and when he could have managed it. “Nice trick.”
“An old one. I can’t imagine why you’re still alive when you’re so gullible.”
“Maybe I’m better than you think.”
“Since my opinion is low, that wouldn’t be too hard.” He dropped down into the chair beside the bed, watching her. “Well?”
She had the entirely juvenile desire to flip him off, but she simply stalked past him and climbed onto the bed. She wanted to shove the pillows off, or throw them at him, but instead she simply arranged them behind her and leaned back, crossing her legs in an attitude of complete relaxation. “I have every intention of taking care of Archer myself.”
“In which decade?”
She controlled her instinctive snarl. “In the next two weeks, if you must know. I’ll figure out a way. I could probably break his neck in hand-to-hand if I’m focused enough.”
“The way you immobilized me?” he said.
“Archer doesn’t have your training.” Or grace, she added silently, refusing to give him that much.
“You could use a knife,” he suggested. “The kitchen must be loaded with them.”
He was probably being facetious, but she took him at his word. “I’ve considered it. I’m good with a knife, but it’s more problematic. I know how to kill people quickly, where to strike, but you have to have perfect aim, and I don’t think Archer is going to stand still and let me practice.”
“There’s a place on the back of the neck that causes instant paralysis,” he offered in the same tone as if he were suggesting they have fish for dinner. “Do that first and you could take your time killing him.”
“The thought is appealing,” she said, slightly horrified, “but again, it requires either perfect aim or the ability to sneak up on him. I’ve been able to train my body, but I really haven’t had the opportunity to practice my throwing skills.” She kept her voice flat and unemotional.
“I don’t think you could take him in hand-to-hand combat. He’s huge.”
“He’s clumsy,” she shot back. “And I’ll use whatever I have at the time.”
“No, you won’t, because I will have taken care of him first.”
“No! He owes me. If anyone kills him, it’s going to be me,” she said fiercely.
He laughed at her, and somehow the barely audible tone infuriated her. “Because you’ve proved to be so reliable in the past, haven’t you? Don’t get in my way. I have no particular interest in killing you, but I wouldn’t hesitate if I think you’re a liability.”
She glared at him. “You stay out of my way and I won’t have to kill you.”
His faint smile was even more annoying. “You can try.”
Sophie Jordan MacDonald had long, shapely legs that he could see quite clearly beneath that oversized T-shirt she was wearing. He’d been able to see her feet and ankles, felt the muscles and resilience in her body when he carried her—he wondered what had kept him from figuring out the truth for so long.
There was a simple answer—she was good, despite her flawed record. She’d had some of the best recommendations during her time in London, and even though she’d originally been sent as a part of a team, simply as backup, they wouldn’t have sent anyone they weren’t sure was capable of killing Archer MacDonald if it came to that.
But she’d been thrown in the deep end before she could really swim, and she was lucky she’d survived, though he guessed it was more than luck. The bullet that had originally crippled her hadn’t been a fatal one, and since then, she’d not only survived but thrived, though he doubted she’d call it that. She was looking at him like he was the enemy, and that suited him just fine. He was the enemy—if she did anything, anything at all, it could end in disaster. If he were as cold-blooded as he should be, he’d figure out a way to kill her, swiftly and efficiently, making it look like an accident. Most operatives wouldn’t hesitate.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded in an angry whisper.
He shrugged. He ought to put on some clothes—sitting there in nothing but his boxers made the proximity of all her skin more disturbing, and it brought back the feel of her body beneath his, the soft swell of her breasts pressing against her worn T-shirt, against his chest, her long legs entwining with his as she did her best to fight him. He still had a pain in his right kidney from her knee, but it could have been a lot worse, and the bite on his upper arm was oozing blood. “I was thinking about ways I could kill you and get away with it. You’re already too much of a complication and I prefer to keep things simple.”
She had to know he was partly serious, but she didn’t even flinch. “What did you come up with? I could try it out on you.”
“We’re not the same, sweetheart,” he said dryly. “I was considering breaking your neck and placing your body artistically at the bottom of the stairs. After all, you’ve supposedly fallen once today. Or I could toss you off the balcony and they could go with accident or suicide, which Archer might find more believable.”
“Accident,” she said calmly. “He still thinks I’m in love with him.”
“That’s what it looks like. Does he think you don’t know he was behind the shooting?”
“We’ve never discussed it, but I don’t think he’d underestimate me that badly. He believes I married him because I loved him . . .”