The hell he was. He shoved her legs apart, moving between them, and thrust his cock into her so hard she cried out, not in pain but in fierce satisfaction. She was everything he wanted—she was nothing but trouble. He reached up and pulled her hands from his shoulders, slamming them into the mattress and holding them there as he surged into her, deeper and deeper. He was rough, but she met him, thrust for thrust, moving with him, taking him deep inside, the walls of her sex milking him as the first orgasm hit her, and then the second, and then she was lost in one endless convulsion as he shoved into her, over and over and over again, their slick bodies sliding against each other, her teeth on his neck, biting down hard, and then he was coming, losing it all inside her, caught in the tight grasp of her cunt.
He was still hard when he pulled out of her, rolled out of bed, and headed for the bathroom, and he knew if she joined him in the shower, he’d take her again. He couldn’t be around her and not want her, no matter what she said or did. He had to get rid of her, now, before any more damage was done.
The water was cold, of course. He’d forgotten about the power, but the shower seemed to work anyway, and he figured it must be some kind of gravity-fed system. He didn’t mind the cold anymore—he wanted to be icy, frigid, distant. He rubbed soap over his body, trying to ignore his prick, and rinsed clean, waiting for Sophie, knowing she’d follow him, knowing she couldn’t resist any more than he could.
But the door never opened. He turned off the water, listening, but there was no sound from the room beyond. Grabbing a towel, he dried off, then wrapped it around his waist. Not that he was trying to preserve Sophie’s modesty, but he was better off without his erection waving in the wind.
The bed was empty. The door to the balcony was open, and he realized the rain had stopped. It looked like late afternoon, a reasonable-enough guess, and he wondered where the hell Sophie had run to. Was she sulking in her room? He should go check on her . . . no, he should not. He needed to go downstairs and try to get word to the Committee that he needed a pickup. He was going to have to start all over again with Chekowsky, and time was of the essence. At least Archer was gone—no matter how bad Chekowsky was, he couldn’t be as irritating as Archer’s cheerful malice.
He dressed quickly, not bothering with the formal wear that was such a part of Malcolm Gunnison, making do with jeans and a loose shirt. There was no sound from the other side of the wall—maybe she’d fallen asleep. It was more than likely—he’d done his best to wear her out in his bed, and when he left her sitting there, she had a slightly fragile look to her.
Sophie Jordan isn’t the slightest bit fragile, he reminded himself. She could fend for herself—he didn’t have to worry about her. She’d be fine. Just fine.
He unearthed his hidden PDA and messaged headquarters for a pickup, then headed downstairs, and he was almost at the bottom when the lights came on again, the fans starting up, machinery from the kitchen and outside providing a soft hum. To his surprise Sophie was already down there, dressed in jeans herself, no longer those flowing dresses to hide her supposedly useless legs. She was looking at him, a still, quiet expression on her face, and after a moment’s hesitation he walked into the living room.
He went straight to the small bar Archer had set up, pouring himself a scotch, neat. It kept him from having to look at her while he spoke, and he needed a drink. “I’m making arrangements to get you off the island,” he said, turning.
She’d skipped the sofa, taking the chair opposite, her long legs dangling over the side. She’d taken a shower herself—her hair was wet around her well-scrubbed face, and she looked like a child. But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. She was an operative, a failed one, to be sure, but dangerous nonetheless.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said with exquisite courtesy. “What are you going to be doing?”
“I’ve got more work to do. Just because Archer’s dead doesn’t mean my job is done.”
“What?” Her voice was a rough whisper, and he fought off his guilt. He should have told her sooner, but he’d been to
o busy losing himself between her legs.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said, taking a sip of the whiskey while he waited to see whether she believed him. He couldn’t tell. “We landed together on the island. We had a disagreement on the old wooden steps up from the beach by the sugar mill.”
“Those steps are dangerous,” she said, still staring at him in shock. “They’re about ready to fall into the ocean.”
“They have fallen into the ocean,” he corrected her. “With your late husband.”
“He fell?”
“With a little help from me,” Mal said.
For a moment she said nothing, as if considering his words. She looked more dazed than relieved. “You’re certain he’s dead?” she said. “You saw his body?”
“It was pitch black with heavy rain and I was clinging to the very top of the stairs. I wasn’t in a position to go down and check for a pulse. Trust me, he wouldn’t have survived a fall like that.”
“You don’t know Archer,” she said glumly.
“You don’t know me.”
She reacted like he’d hit her, but a second later her face was calm. “No, I suppose I don’t,” she said quietly. “How long will it be before you never have to see me again?”
He didn’t bother to correct her. She needed to get away from him if she was going to have any kind of life at all. She’d already given up too many years to the Committee, just as he had. She needed to get away from all of them, but most of all him. He was pretty sure he’d managed to convince her of that.
“As soon as they can get here. It looks like the storm has passed, so it shouldn’t take too long.”
“Lovely,” she said. “So if he’s dead, what else do you have to do?”
“Find the man who designed RU48. Problem is, I have no fucking clue where he is, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to find him.”
She was giving him an odd look. “What’s his name?”
“Chekowsky. I’m sure you heard Archer talking about him.”