Wildfire (The Fire Series Book 3) by Anne Stuart

Author:Anne Stuart [Stuart, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503941724
Publisher: Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
Published: 2017-02-14T05:00:00+00:00

Bastard, bastard, bastard, Sophie fumed as he rolled her into the kitchen. There was no longer any question in her mind—she was going to kill him too, once she’d finished with Archer. It didn’t matter that he was Committee—he was probably just as much a danger to her as Archer was, and it would be self-defense. Justifiable homicide. A well-deserved execution.

The kitchen was deserted. “Penny for your thoughts,” Malcolm said as he planted her in the middle of the big room, too far from any surface to find a weapon like a butcher knife or a heavy frying pan.

“I was thinking of ways to kill you,” she said in a low voice.

He gave a surreptitious glance around him. “No surveillance in here?”

She wasn’t going to help him. “You figure it out.”

His half grin made her want to smack him. But, then, she already wanted to kill him—that was nothing new. “Two cameras, one trained on the door to the dining room, the other on the door to outside. Bugs in the same places—there’d be too much noise going on in here to have something ultrasensitive. So we’re relatively unwatched. Where do you think Elena is?”

She stifled her irritation. Of course he would have checked the place out—he was Committee, after all. In another lifetime she might have admired how efficient he was. “She’ll probably walk back in at any time.”

“She’s probably having a nice long siesta. Archer went to a lot of trouble to get rid of everybody—I’m sure he told her not to bother with lunch today.”

“You willing to take a chance on that?” she challenged him.

“Yes.” He took the kettle, poured out the water and refilled it, then set it on the stove to heat.

“There’s a coffeemaker and an espresso machine.”

“There’s also a French press, and I’m a purist.”

“Oh, God help me,” she muttered.

“He hasn’t so far.” He reached for the tightly sealed container of oily black beans. “If you’re in a hurry, I can make you one of those infernal pods.”

She didn’t want to accept anything from him, but the lure of French press coffee was irresistible. Too much about him was. She needed to learn how to resist. “I can wait,” she said in a grumpy voice.

She could see the brief flash of amusement in his eyes. “I’m sure you can.” He took out the coffee grinder, and she realized he’d already made a complete surveillance of the kitchen—he even knew where all the implements were. She unfastened the wheel locks and slid back, out of his way, farther out of the way of the cameras, and watched as he went about the ritual of coffee making in a charged silence. She needed to watch him, observe him, see if she could pick up anything about him that might help her, just as she’d been trained to do, but she wished she didn’t have to. He moved so elegantly, with an economy of grace that belied the sheer power in his deceptively lean body. She’d felt

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