So she was back to being a pain in his ass and almost irresistible. Archer was dead—Mal no longer had any excuse to touch her, other than the strongest one: he wanted to. If he had any sense, he’d close the door and head back to her room, sleep in her bed.
If he had any sense, he’d never have touched her in the first place. Face it, he told himself. You’ve got a thing for the girl. The more you fight it the worse it’ll be. Get in there and fuck the shit out of her and you’ll be able to walk away.
Silently he moved into the room, coming around to the far side of the bed, staring down at her. A good operative would have known he was there, he thought, and a moment later her eyes opened, those warm brown eyes that were the best thing in the world.
She just looked at him, not moving. “You’re back,” she said in a low, sleep-husky voice, stating the obvious.
“I’m back,” he agreed, being just as predictable. “Why are you in my bed? Something wrong with yours?” It wasn’t the most welcoming of statements, but his natural wariness had kicked in.
She opened that gorgeous mouth of hers to say something, th
en seemed to think better of it, as tension stiffened her body. “Is Archer with you?”
Just to be an asshole he gave an exaggerated look around him. “I don’t see him anywhere, do you?”
Her shoulders didn’t relax. Bare shoulders, which meant she was probably naked between his sheets. His cock got even harder at the thought, but he didn’t change his expression.
“Is he on the island?”
He should take pity on the edge of fear in her voice. “Nope,” he said. By now Archer’s body would be washed out to sea for the fish to nibble away at, but he wasn’t ready to offer that information.
“Is he coming back soon?” Her voice was marginally less nervous.
He glanced toward the French doors and the storm raging outside. “Not likely.” Years of training were hard to break, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth, not when he was still unsure of her.
Then again, he’d learned not to trust anyone, and life had born his skepticism out. The woman in front of him could be a treacherous snake or an unwitting temptress. He had his own opinion, but that wasn’t enough to go on. Not yet.
“Okay,” she said, and for some reason the nervousness hadn’t left her. “I’m sorry I usurped your territory. I should be in my own bed.”
He didn’t respond to that one—she was just asking for flattery. She had to know he found her almost irresistible. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Is your bed made of nails or something? I wouldn’t put it past Archer.”
“It’s a hospital bed—they’re made to be uncomfortable,” she said with a grimace.
“So like Goldilocks you decided to check out the competition and this one was just right?” He was mocking her again—trying to keep her at arm’s length when he wanted nothing more than to pull her into them.
She just looked at him, and he wondered what kind of lie she was working up to. It would be a complicated, fully believable one, if he were even the slightest bit gullible.
Her big brown eyes were deceptively vulnerable, and she licked her lips nervously. Taking in a deep breath, she blurted, “It felt safe.”
“Why?”
“It felt like you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sophie had no idea why she’d said such a stupid thing. Maybe because she was tired of lying. Maybe because he was standing there stark nude and obviously aroused and it was all wrong. Men usually looked silly without their clothes on. There was nothing the slightest bit silly about Mal.
And then, when she’d essentially laid her heart and her vulnerability on the line, he said absolutely nothing. He looked at her as she huddled naked beneath his sheets, as if trying to read her thoughts, and she realized he still didn’t trust her. Not on any level.
When she’d first heard him come in, she kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep in case it wasn’t Malcolm. It wasn’t until he moved close, silent as a cat, that she was certain, and a slow joy had filled her.
That joy had vanished now in shame and uncertainty. There wasn’t any way she could salvage her pride, but then, that had been MIA for years. Dignity was overrated as well. She plastered on one of her fake smiles, the one she perfected for Archer, as she tried to figure out her easiest way to exit.
“You must be exhausted,” she said in her best garden-party, social hostess voice. “I should let you get some sleep.” She started to sit up, clutching the sheets to her chest. Why the fuck hadn’t she put on some clothes before she’d gotten in his bed? She knew the truth, though. She’d wanted to feel Mal’s sheets all around her body, and she didn’t want to put on any of the whore’s lingerie that Archer kept her supplied with.
He still said nothing, not moving. She could ask him to turn around, she could wrap the loose sheet around her like a toga, but she wasn’t going to bother. She’d lost her dignity when she’d told him she was there for him and he hadn’t responded. She wasn’t going to show an ounce more vulnerability.
She sat up, pushing the covers away, and climbed out of the bed, not giving a damn about her own nudity. She was still slightly tipsy from the wine, she realized. Just enough that she didn’t give a shit. She shook her tangled hair out of her face, squared her shoulders, and started toward the door as he stood there, making no move to stop her. It wasn’t until she put her hand on the doorknob that he spoke, his voice low and rumbling.