Wildfire

  ALSO BY ANNE STUART

  ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  THE FIRE SERIES

  Consumed by Fire

  Driven by Fire

  THE ICE SERIES

  On Thin Ice

  Fire and Ice

  Ice Storm

  Ice Blue

  Cold As Ice

  Black Ice

  STAND-ALONE TITLES

  Into the Fire

  Still Lake

  The Widow

  Shadows at Sunset

  Shadow Lover

  Ritual Sins

  Moonrise

  Nightfall

  Seen and Not Heard

  At the Edge of the Sun

  Darkness before Dawn

  Escape out of Darkness

  The Demon Count’s Daughter

  The Demon Count

  Demonwood

  Cameron’s Landing

  Barrett’s Hill

  Silver Falls

  COLLABORATIONS

  Dogs & Goddesses

  The Unfortunate Miss Fortunes

  ANTHOLOGIES

  Burning Bright

  Date with a Devil

  What Lies Beneath

  Night and Day

  Valentine Babies

  My Secret Admirer

  Sisters and Secrets

  Summer Love

  New Year’s Resolution: Baby

  New Year’s Resolution: Husband

  One Night with a Rogue

  Strangers in the Night

  Highland Fling

  To Love and to Honor

  My Valentine

  Silhouette Shadows

  ROMANCE

  Wild Thing

  The Right Man

  A Dark and Stormy Night

  The Soldier and the Baby

  Cinderman

  Falling Angel

  One More Valentine

  Rafe’s Revenge

  Heat Lightning

  Chasing Trouble

  Night of the Phantom

  Lazarus Rising

  Angel’s Wings

  Rancho Diablo

  Crazy Like a Fox

  Glass Houses

  Cry for the Moon

  Partners in Crime

  Blue Sage

  Bewitching Hour

  Rocky Road

  Made in America #19

  Banish Misfortune

  Housebound

  Museum Piece

  Heart’s Ease

  Chain of Love

  The Fall of Maggie Brown

  Winter’s Edge

  Catspaw II

  Hand in Glove

  Catspaw

  Tangled Lies

  Now You See Him

  Special Gifts

  Break the Night

  Against the Wind

  NOVELLAS

  Married to It (prequel to Fire and Ice)

  Risk the Night

  HISTORICALS

  SCANDAL AT THE HOUSE OF RUSSELL

  Never Kiss a Rake

  Never Trust a Pirate

  Never Marry a Viscount

  THE HOUSE OF ROHAN

  The Wicked House of Rohan

  Shameless

  Breathless

  Reckless

  Ruthless

  STAND-ALONE TITLES

  The Devil’s Waltz

  Hidden Honor

  Lady Fortune

  Prince of Magic

  Lord of Danger

  Prince of Swords

  To Love a Dark Lord

  Shadow Dance

  A Rose at Midnight

  The Houseparty

  The Spinster and the Rake

  Lord Satan’s Bride

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503941724

  ISBN-10: 1503941728

  Cover design by Jason Blackburn

  For Jo Beverley—you’d argue that my hero wasn’t heroic enough, and I’d argue back, and we would have had a great time. I miss you. Have fun with all the noble heroes in heaven.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Sophie Jordan lay utterly still in the inky darkness, the cool tile floor beneath her sweating body, as she checked her heart rate. Steady and solid after she’d done two dozen reps in perfect silence. She’d been working herself up slowly over the months—as soon as she started breathing heavily she had to stop. There were no cameras or microphones in her huge bathroom, but she wasn’t sure how sensitive the bugging devices in her bedroom were. For all she knew, they could pick up the sound of her increased respiration.

  It was good practice anyway. When you were a prisoner in an armed fortress, silence was your friend. Sophie sat up quickly, fluidly, then rose to her feet once more, going through the training moves she remembered from what seemed like so long ago. She could feel the strength flowing through her, the pleasant pull of her muscles, the ease of her body. She would have given ten years off her life to be able to run outside, beneath the sun or the stars, breathing in fresh air. Instead, she ran in place, her bare feet silent, energy pumping through her body, the walls of the bathroom cool around her in the night air. She was sweating, but she never dared to take a shower afterward—it would raise too many questions. She finished up her workout, going through her cool-down stretches, shoved her sweat-damp hair away from her face, and silently opened the door to her bedroom.

  She kept it inky black, no trace of moonlight filtering in. She had no guarantee that Archer’s cameras weren’t temperature sensitive—he could very well be watching the heat signature of her body as she moved back to the big bed. It would be just like her psychotic husband to let her think she was fooling him, fooling everyone, when he knew her secrets all along. After all, he’d done it once before.

  She couldn’t let that fear stop her. She had no choice but to put her head down and plow ahead, building strength, biding her time. If it was all another trap, then so be it. He might be able to see her outline, but there was no way he could know how strong she was. Even she wasn’t sure if she was back to her full strength yet—she could only keep training and hope for the best.

  Sooner or later, Archer would tire of his cat-and-mouse game. He’d either kill her or let her go, though she wouldn’t place any money on the latter. Archer liked power too much, and he took pleasure in other people’s pain.

  She’d done her best to give him his money’s worth.

  The sheets were cool as she slid beneath them, and she shivered slightly in the air-conditioning. It kept the room a littl
e too cold, but she had no choice—she couldn’t have any windows open if she wanted to keep what little privacy she could get away with, and she’d suffocate without the air.

  Her only bit of luck was Archer’s general squeamishness when it came to bathroom matters. Not only did he not want to see her on the toilet—he didn’t want anyone else to either. So at least the bathroom was sacrosanct, and she could move around there all she wanted.

  She lay back in the bed, closing her eyes, listening to her heartbeat slowly return to a resting rate. Two more weeks at the most, Sophie thought. Two more weeks and she’d be ready to go. For now she had no choice but to continue her charade.

  She’d trained herself to fall asleep instantly, and the next thing she knew someone was drawing aside the curtains, letting the bright, tropical sunshine flood the room. She opened her eyes, watching as the woman moved to the bedside.

  “Did you sleep well, Mrs. MacDonald?” Rachel asked, the woman’s classically beautiful face set in unemotional lines as she flipped back the covers to expose Sophie’s motionless legs. Archer liked to surround himself with feminine beauty, and even her de facto nurse could have had a modeling contract. Rachel was close to six feet tall, with endless legs and the best boobs man could buy. Archer had always had a weakness for Barbies.

  “The pain kept me awake for a while,” Sophie said in the soft, faintly plaintive voice she’d perfected.

  “Did you take your pills?”

  “Of course.” The stash of Vicodin was hidden in a hollowed-out section of her mattress. She had learned from her early training to hold on to whatever might make a weapon, and besides that, drugs were always an easy currency.

  “I’ll talk to Dr. Corbin—perhaps we might switch you to Percocet if you aren’t getting relief.” Rachel slid her arms beneath Sophie’s limp body and pulled her into a sitting position, managing to twist her back painfully. Rachel was very strong, and she topped Sophie’s height by a good three inches. Sophie had no idea who would win in a fight—Rachel was bigger, but Sophie had the advantage of having been trained. Like Archer, Rachel enjoyed hurting her a little too much when given the chance, and the long-absent Dr. Corbin gave Rachel more than enough opportunity.

  At least Sophie didn’t have to worry about the old mob doctor showing up and calling her out. No one cared if she lived or died, and Corbin wasn’t going to fly to Isla Mordita again to see a patient who didn’t matter, whose condition he’d decreed was permanent. Rachel had some sort of medical training—enough to be able to give clumsy injections and painful massages that left Sophie a mass of bruises—but she didn’t know enough to recognize muscle power, particularly since Sophie managed to cover her legs as best she could.

  She couldn’t wear long sleeves in such a hot climate, but the muscles in her arms were easily explained away as the result of using a wheelchair, and Archer seemed to accept them as the natural outcome of her condition. Maybe.

  There was also a pair of pathetic, bright-pink one-pound weights she’d been allowed, but Sophie ignored them in favor of the heavy tomes provided for her library. The muscles she’d developed were a little too impressive if someone looked closely, but fortunately nobody did.

  “It’s a beautiful day, Mrs. MacDonald. Will you be wearing the usual?”

  The “usual” was a long, loose-fitting sundress, something that required little effort to put on and covered up any number of secrets. “That would be fine. Just leave everything in the bathroom and I’ll manage myself.”

  Rachel let out an annoyed huff. “I don’t know why you refuse to let me help you dress. That’s what I’m here for—to make your life easier.”

  Sure you are. Sophie kept a sweet, frail expression plastered to her face. You’re a jailor and a spy, nothing more. “And you’re doing a wonderful job. But I’ve told you—I’m not comfortable with nudity, especially since the . . . accident, and dressing myself is good for me.”

  “And I suppose you don’t want help with the shower either? What if you slipped?”

  “I haven’t yet.”

  With silent disapproval Rachel pulled a deep turquoise sundress out of her closet, along with the expensive underwear Archer had bought for her. There were matching sandals for every dress—the room-sized closet off the bedroom was color-coordinated and packed full. Rachel dumped the clothing in the bathroom, then came back to the bed, sliding her strong arms around Sophie’s limp body and pulling her onto the wheelchair, slamming her against its metal arms as she did so. Sophie didn’t flinch, smiling gratefully as Rachel placed her immobile legs on the footrest. After all these months she still wasn’t sure what would incite Rachel to hurt her. She might like the sound of Sophie’s pain, want more of it. Or she might simply want to break her.

  Either way, Sophie wasn’t going to give in to Rachel’s physical taunts. It was one thing to complain about the pain of her nonexistent condition, another to let Rachel win. Besides, Rachel thought she held all the cards and that poor little Sophie was at her mercy. With any luck Sophie would have a chance to show her otherwise before she escaped.

  Sophie began rolling toward the huge, specially equipped bathroom and Rachel spoke up. “Your husband is expecting a business acquaintance tonight,” she said. “He said to tell you he hopes you’ll feel well enough to join him for dinner.”

  That was something new. The only time she saw her husband was when he made one of his rare visits, and he spent all his time on the first floor of the partially remodeled plantation house. Those expensive changes hadn’t included an elevator, and presumably Sophie was trapped on the second floor, with only the wide, sweeping staircase between her and any kind of freedom. One of the other bedrooms had been finished, and there used to be the constant sound of hammering, the smell of freshly sawed wood filling the air. That noise had stopped recently, but Sophie had no illusions that the remodeling project was finished. The terrace outside her locked French doors was still littered with construction debris, and the last time she’d been taken down to the pool, the cabana had been in the midst of being torn down. There hadn’t been time to fix it.

  At least Archer’s grand master suite, the one she’d once shared with him, was on the first floor. She could only hope that at times he forgot about her completely—it would give her an advantage when she was finally ready to make her move. She knew it was a foolish hope on her part—Archer never forgot an injury, never forgot anything, and he had a particular fondness for brutal, complicated revenge.

  “Who’s coming?” she asked.

  Rachel shrugged. “You know Archer doesn’t volunteer information. Should I tell him you don’t feel up to it?”

  Sophie was tempted. The less she saw of Archer, the greater advantage she would have. But Archer didn’t do anything without a good reason, and this mysterious stranger must be someone important if he wanted to show off his handicapped wife. “I can do it,” she said in a wan voice. “I wouldn’t want to let him down.”

  It wasn’t the answer Rachel wanted, but she had no excuse to put her hands on her, and retribution would have to come later. “I’ll tell him you said yes, then,” she said. She let her cold eyes run over Sophie’s body in the wheelchair. “If you won’t let me help you, then I’ll go order your breakfast. Unless there’s something else?”

  Sophie smiled sweetly, a look that always seemed to leave Rachel unmoved. “I’ll be fine. You do so much for me anyway.”

  “It’s my job.”

  Sophie didn’t even blink. Rachel’s job was to spy on her and probably fuck her husband. “And you do it so well.”

  Rachel cast her a suspicious glance, but Sophie’s face was absolutely innocent. She’d been working on her expression in the mirror of the bathroom, where no cameras could catch her, and she knew she was damned good. All that training had stayed with her, and she’d always been a terrific liar.

  “Archer wants you downstairs by six for drinks. I’ll come up earlier and help you dress . . .”

  “I’ll be dressed.?
??

  Rachel let out a little noise of irritation. “And I’ll bring Joe to carry you.”

  “Poor Joe,” Sophie said softly. In fact, Joe was one of the few men on Isla Mordita she trusted. He was huge, bald, immensely strong, and genuinely sweet. She’d once seen him kill a man by breaking his neck with his knees, and she knew he was responsible for many more of Archer’s murders. But Joe was always careful and considerate with her, and he disapproved of the way Archer kept her shut away. He wouldn’t actually be an ally when she got out of there, but she hoped he wouldn’t get in her way. She wouldn’t want to kill him. “Tell Archer I’m looking forward to it.”

  She didn’t miss Rachel’s expression. Rachel believed Sophie was desperately in love with Archer MacDonald, longing for any sign of attention, and jealous of Rachel’s obvious closeness to him. Sophie had done everything she could to foster that impression.

  In fact, last she’d figured out, Archer was sleeping with three different women on his small, private island off the coast of Florida. As far she could tell, though, Rachel reserved her jealousy for Sophie, which was interesting. She must think Sophie was a greater threat than she actually was.

  Sophie could have told her the only reason Archer kept her around was to play cat-and-mouse games with her. That, and simple revenge. When he tired of it, he was going to kill her, or send someone to do it. She expected it would be the latter—Archer never wanted to get his hands dirty, and while he took pleasure in his small cruelties, so far he hadn’t cared enough about her to bother himself with her execution. Archer was too fastidious, and blood was so messy. She was just an afterthought, one he’d deal with sooner or later, if she didn’t get out first.

  But that didn’t explain why he’d want her downstairs to entertain his mysterious guest. And there was no question that the guest would be mysterious—very few people were allowed on the island—and when they came, she seldom saw them. Archer kept his business dealings away from here, in Miami, in New York, in New Orleans. This was his fortress, his safe house, and he’d managed to keep it a better secret than most nowadays, when information was only a click away, on the darknet, if not through the usual channels.

  Isla Mordita had once been the property of a Cuban plantation owner, and the ruins of the old sugar mill stood on one end of the island. She and Archer had sex inside the mill when she’d been stupidly, blindly in love with him. She was past berating herself for her gullible idiocy. That had filled the first year after the so-called accident, when she was confined to the bed, unable to move. By the second year, when she started to get some feeling back in her legs, she’d moved past that, into a plan for escape.