“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, making herself sound casual. “How long have you been getting away with it?”
“How long have I been a killer for the Committee? Eight years.”
She stared at him. He’d said it casually, as if it were no big deal, but she thought she could see a bleakness to his eyes. “You were there when I was?” For some reason she had simply assumed he’d come in later.
“I was. I wasn’t stationed in England at the time, but I heard all about you. Everyone did.”
The familiar guilt swept over her, but she resolutely pushed it away. “That must have been entertaining for you . . .” Her voice trailed off as Elena came out on the veranda, a large tray in her capable hands. Sophie could smell the coffee, and she decided she might survive this day after all.
Elena set the food on the table—thick, crusty chicken sandwiches, mugs of steaming coffee, a plate of mangoes. There were also two pairs of Archer’s unending supply of Ray-Bans. “The sun is too bright this time of day,” Elena said.
Mal reached for the sunglasses, and for a moment Sophie was fixated on his hand. Had she ever looked at them before? He had long, elegant fingers and strong, beautiful hands. Damn it. He looked up at Elena and smiled with such genuine sweetness that it felt like a punch in the stomach. “Gracias, Elena.”
Elena was far from immune. Her cheeks flushed pink with pleasure. “De nada, señor. Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re fine,” Mal said, not bothering to check with Sophie.
She waited until Elena was gone. “Another member of your fan club?”
“Put on your sunglasses,” he said, tossing them to her. She made no effort to catch them, and they landed in her lap. He reached for his mug of coffee. “Put them on or I’ll put them on for you.” It was gently spoken, but it was a threat, and she wasn’t about to give him the excuse to touch her ever again.
She put them on, cutting the glare. They were some protection—not from the sun, but from him, and she preferred having his eyes covered as well. They were far too acute when they fell on her. “So what do you expect me to do when Archer comes home? Am I supposed to simper and fall all over you? Be rendered silent and in awe over your massive . . . skills?”
He actually laughed at that, setting off another inexplicable reaction inside her. “Do anything you fucking please. I have a little suggestion for you, though.”
“I’m sure you do.” She took a sip of her coffee and felt the warm caffeine slide down to her nerve endings. Not the liquid ambrosia of Mal’s French press masterpiece, but close enough to renew her flagging will.
“You might try to remember this place is bugged just about everywhere.”
She almost spat the coffee out before she stared at him, stricken. “You idiot! Why didn’t you remind me?”
He was leaning back in his hair, surveying one sandwich with interest. “You were clearly too distracted by my massive . . . skills”—he echoed her suggestive pause—“to think about such things. Fortunately a good fuck doesn’t turn me into a mindless idiot. I pulled the wire this morning.”
Mindless idiot? She looked at him, deceptively calm. “You think you’re improving matters by trying to drive me into a murderous rage?” She wasn’t sure whether to be furious or flattered by the “good fuck.”
“I’m not trying to improve matters.”
“Good point.” Elena had brought out a sharp knife for the mango slices, and Sophie wondered if she would have any chance of getting it and burying it in his thigh.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mal said, moving the knife out of her reach.
“Then stop pissing me off.” It was a benevolent term for the anger that suffused her, but he didn’t seem to care.
“You’re better that way,” he said. “More alert. As long as you’re angry, you’re more likely to stay alive.”
“And exactly why do you care?”
He appeared struck by the thought. “Actually, I’m not sure. Maybe things would be easier if you were dead.” He gave her a cynical version of the sweet smile he’d given Elena, his eyes unreadable behind the dark lenses. “Carry on.”
She took a bite out of her sandwich, wishing she were biting his jugular. “Fuck you.”
“You should have said that earlier—we could have stayed down at the boathouse. I don’t suppose we have time to go back . . . ?” He looked at his watch suggestively.
“I . . .”
“Yes, I know, you hate me. Good for you. Now smile, my pretty little assassin. Your husband has returned.”
She felt the color drain her face, and she set down the half-eaten sandwich, her bizarre appetite, which had unexpectedly returned, vanishing once more at the sound of Archer’s loud laugh echoing from the living room. She barely had time to roll away from the table when the man who was technically her husband strode out onto the terrace, Rachel on his arm.