Code Name: Blondie
Christina Skye
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER ONE
17°30’ south latitude
18°52’ west longitude
WHY DID SEX SOUND so noisy when it wasn’t happening to you?
Miki Fortune steadied her digital camera and tried to ignore the grunts and groans from the nearby tent where her two models were doing the nasty again in full audio. There was no mistaking the sharply heaving canvas where her gorgeous six-foot-one Scandinavian model was getting screwed up, down and sideways by an equally gorgeous male model from Montana.
Satisfied with two shots of the pristine cove, Miki shouldered her camera gear and headed back up the beach. White sand crunched beneath her feet and a warm wind ruffled her hair, but all Miki saw was camera angles and F-stops. Paradise meant nothing when you were trying not to screw up the biggest opportunity of your life, a full-color calendar called Best Beaches of the World.
Behind Miki the tent walls shook harder. Panting voices carried on the wind. “Oh, Looogan. That way. Harder—harder!” The canvas snapped and the sound effect grew more obvious.
Miki scowled. If people wanted to have sex, they should do it in another state.
Logan Brooks, Miki’s tanned male model, ground out an urgent curse. Something crashed to the ground beyond the canvas wall.
Disgusted, Miki stowed her camera and lenses, then glanced at her watch. After all the time zones she’d crossed between her home in New Mexico and this beach southwest of Bora Bora, her body clock felt permanently out of synch. But tired or not, she had finished the day’s shots without a hitch. Now that her new digital cameras were stowed and their precious memory cards transferred to a portable hard drive, Miki couldn’t wait to get back in the air.
Paradise was fine when you were eighteen and crazy in love, enjoying a clothing-optional vacation. When you were working, paradise felt like salt in an old wound, reminding you of all that was wrong with your life.
Which, in Miki’s case, could have filled most of Montana.
One of the pilots leaned against a palm tree and peeled an apple, clearly enjoying the models’ escapade. An older pilot napped in the shade, hat over his head. Her boss sat in a leather campaign chair scanning the photos she’d transferred to his laptop.
Vance Merchant didn’t look pleased. She’d given him her best work, shots that shimmered with dawn light and burned with sunset crimson. There was no possible reason for his frown other than the simple fact that he could. The man knew he held all the power and he enjoyed wielding it mercilessly. He was a tyrant, just the way Miki had heard. Being around him was about as much fun as sharing a cardboard box with a scorpion.
But the job was important, her first chance at national commercial exposure. If the calendar was a success, Miki knew she’d receive dozens of travel assignments, a fiercely competitive category of photographic work. So she dug her toe slowly through the warm sand, fighting uneasiness as she waited for Vance’s verdict.
Her balding boss looked up as the tent shook one last time. Moments later Miss Finland 2002 emerged, stunning in a black string bikini that hugged her body like butter. When her partner appeared, he was rumpled and languid, his shirt buttoned wrong and his zipper still open.
Someone snickered. The men looked up as Miss Finland stretched languidly. Vance smiled and started to make a comment.
Miki cut him off. “Can we go now?”
The model, who currently worked under the name of Jasmyn, stretched slowly while she toyed with her tiny bikini top, aware that she had all the men’s attention. “Me, I am hungry with appetite. I can eat very big horse right now.” She frowned beautifully. “Anyone have very big horse to give?”
Miki’s boss muttered something to the older pilot. Miki ignored them.
Sometimes men had all the subtlety of boa constrictors. And now three new bruises darkened Miss Finland’s elegant neck. They’d have to be digitally removed, the same way Miki had removed the other bites and scratches incurred from St. Thomas to Tahiti. Luckily, Miki was very skilled at both cosmetics and Photoshop.
Vance Merchant looked up and waved his hand at the younger pilot, who climbed aboard one of the two amphibious Cessnas rocking in the water. As the models waited, the pilot revved the engine and gestured from the small cockpit.
About time, Miki thought, heading toward the plane. This place was getting creepy. Besides, the wind was picking up.
Vance caught her arm. “Not you. I need a dozen more shots of the reef before we leave, babe.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. I filled a flash card this morning.”
Her boss’s eyes narrowed. “I’m the one who decides when we’re done, honey. Remember that.” He tossed her his big Nikon, careless of the $10,000 piece of equipment. “Get moving.”
Vance Merchant could afford to buy a camera a day for the rest of his nasty life. His silver spoon came from his father’s success in coffee commodities—and his mother’s good fortune in being an oil heiress. The man’s trust fund was obscene.
As Miki checked the camera, the balding businessman slid an arm around her shoulders. “I can see that taking orders is a problem for you. We’ll have to do something about that.”
She pushed his hand away smoothly and thought about decking him. One solid chop to the collarbone and he would be moaning. On the other hand, physical assault didn’t get credits on a job resume.
Excellent lighting skills. Inventive with neutral density filters. Crushed the supervisor’s collarbone. May be unstable and probably dangerous.
Not the best path to career advancement. Miki sighed. She needed to stop drifting and start being serious. Photography was in her blood, a passion since she was ten. Day and night images haunted her thoughts, burned into her head. The problem was getting someone’s attention so that she’d have the backing to shoot for a living. She had finally grown up and started to take her work seriously, which meant no decking the boss.
The Cessna’s motor turned over. The models were aboard with all their gear, and the pilot was checking his equipment.
“What’s he doing?”
The Cessna began to pick up speed. Miki felt a sudden sharp uneasiness at how isolated they were on this speck of an island. “They’re leaving ahead of us? I thought we were flying out together for safety.”
“If you do your job, we’ll be flying out in a few minutes.” Vance glanced at the older pilot, and a silent signal seemed to pass between the two men.
“What do you mean, do my job?” Miki frowned at Vance. “I think we’ve got enough background shots for ten calendars.”
“You think? Who’s paying you to think, babe?” Sunlight burned on Vance’s yellow silk shirt as he tra
ced Miki’s neck. “The sooner you stop whining and start shooting, the sooner we take off.”
“You can’t let them go ahead of us, Vance.”
“I just did, babe. Move it because your stalling is costing me money.”
No point trying to change his mind. After three weeks of travel in close quarters, Miki had figured out that the man was impossible. She stalked over the sand and leveled Vance’s Nikon, trying to ignore the roar of the other Cessna as it prepared for take off. Palm trees waved, the ocean glittered—and clouds piled up to the south.
Miki couldn’t shake a sense of unease. When she finished two dozen new shots from different angles, she gritted her teeth and turned back to her boss. “I’m done here. Why don’t you take a look so we can go?”
“Cool your jets, babe.”
Babe? If Miki never heard that word again, she would die a happy woman. Was it stupidity or arrogance that made men think women actually liked that name? Of course, Babe was better than Blondie. For the last five years, Miki had dyed her natural blond hair to a streaky brown in order to shield herself against the wrong kind of male attention. From bitter experience she knew that being blonde automatically took off five years and ten pounds. The only problem was that being blonde also knocked fifty points off your I.Q. in the eyes of most men. Some women seemed happy with the tradeoff, but Miki wasn’t one of them. So why the hell was she back to bubblehead blond now?
When she’d heard about the team shooting an exotic calendar called Best Beaches of the World, Miki had instructed her photo agent in Santa Fe to accept the offer with no negotiation. At first her agent had been discouraging. “Waste of time, Fortune. Vance Merchant only hires blondes because he thinks they’re good luck.” The agent had rolled his eyes. “That means all blondes, all the time. Besides, Merchant is a little hard to work with.”
Miki was too enthusiastic to let the offer slip away. That same day she had dyed her hair to its original streaky gold, angry but determined to snag the job.
Unfortunately, her agent had neglected to mention several details. For example, Vance Merchant’s interest in blondes usually took on touchy-feely overtones by the second day of a shoot, and Miki soon tired of dodging the producer’s fast hands. Between the constant travel and the isolated location shooting, she could never seem to escape him.
Not that she would whine. She could handle a weasel like Vance Merchant. The trick was finding a way to rebuff him without costing her the job.
All her irritation snapped into sharp focus as she waited for the balding California millionaire to amble across the beach in his $800 handmade Panama hat. When she held out the camera, he moved in close, pressing against her shoulder while he looked into the LED screen.
Miki controlled her irritation by imagining a few more zeroes in her bank balance. “So what do you think?”
“Nice cloud detail. But I keep telling you, we’re here for the sex and the skin. That’s what sells, not your artsy nature shots.”
Miki bit back a hot answer, reaching for the camera, but Vance moved out of reach. “You screwed up Jasmyn’s close-ups today. Where’s the mineral oil I told you to use on Jasmyn? There’s no shine, no sizzle. Are you a total idiot?”
I’ll give you shine, Miki thought. “Vance, you didn’t tell me—”
“Can it, babe. I need a dozen more windward shots across that slope. Then I can crop and insert some shots of Jasmyn later in post-production. Get to it.”
“Now?” Miki started at him in disbelief. The other Cessna had taken off five minutes ago and the dark clouds were getting closer. Was the man crazy?
“Are you coming or not?”
She ached to tell Vance where he could put this job and his expensive Nikon, but somehow she swallowed her pride and nodded. Why did all the good jobs come with jerks in charge? Was there something wrong with her?
“Fortune, are you listening to me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Vance muttered as he vanished behind the low sand dunes. As soon as Miki crossed the slope, she saw a shirt spread out on the ground. Vance was standing beside it, tugging at his belt.
She went absolutely still. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t be so damned uptight. It’s just sex, something to loosen you up and get your creative juices flowing. I saw you staring at Miss Finland and the hunk. All that noise got you excited, didn’t it? You want it.”
“Excuse me?”
Vance’s belt hit the sand. “You’re wasting time. Get naked.”
“You’re nuts as well as a creep. The only thing I’m doing is boarding that plane. You handle the sex by yourself. I figure you usually do that anyway,” she added grimly.
“In that case, you’re fired.” Vance made the little Donald Trump hand gesture, his voice icy. “Take your choice.”
Did he always get away with this, Miki wondered? Didn’t people file lawsuits for this kind of behavior? As the tropical wind ruffled her hair, she saw her career going up in smoke and was too angry to be diplomatic. Enough was enough. What she did next was for her and all the other women Vance had suckered over the years.
She kicked sand toward him, pleased when he yelped with surprise. While he was distracted, she followed with a roundhouse kick from one of her many hours of classes. She wasn’t coordinated, but her blow to his ribs got the job done, making Vance gulp, caught in midcurse. He lurched sideways and landed face down in the sand.
A noise drew Miki’s gaze. She saw the first Cessna circle high, dipping its trim wing once before heading east. The plane’s receding outline left her with the cold feeling that she was cut off from civilization, stranded forever.
And this wasn’t a reality show. This was her life.
Grabbing her camera bag, she sprinted for the remaining plane, ignoring Vance’s threats. Get in line, she thought. She had car payments due, credit card bills to pay and now she’d blown her best job in months.
Sand hissed behind her. The millionaire producer huffed over the sloping crest of the beach, red-faced. There was a fresh bruise on his flabby right shoulder.
“You’re through, Fortune. There’s no city small enough for you to hide. Forget about taking pictures for a living. Forget about portraits or calendars or greeting cards. You’re over, honey. I’m going to see to it personally as soon as I get back to L.A.”
Miki resisted an urge to hit him again, instead dredging up a cloyingly sweet smile. “If I’m over, then it won’t hurt me to file a nice sexual harassment suit against you, will it? Won’t that look lovely when it hits the papers? You sell a lot of calendars in college bookstores, don’t you? I’d say your sales are going to tank when the female students hear about your problem keeping your pants zipped.”
Vance’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “You little bitch. You are dead as far as new photographic work is concerned.”
Miki returned his cold stare. “Try it, Vance. If you do, my agent will enjoy contacting every female photographer in America so they hear about your little scam,” she blustered.
Meanwhile, her teeth were chattering. Fired and now blacklisted. Could her life get any worse?
At least she had new photos for her portfolio, taken on her free time during this trip. Several freelance sales should help make up a month’s lost salary and the cost of her new camera equipment.
Vance puffed past her, smiling. “You didn’t read the last page of our contract, did you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Stupid move, babe. I mean you can forget having anything for your portfolio. It’s all mine—every print and digital image. Your film agent wanted to reject the clause, but it was nonnegotiable if you wanted the assignment. That means you get no use of anything without my approval—and trust me, you won’t ever be getting that.” His lips curved. “Unless you want to reconsider my offer.”
“You mean the quickie in the sand?” Miki squeezed her hands together to keep them from lunging at him. She’d purchased a new camera and lense
s, slaved for three weeks, and now the weasel had cut her out of rights to her own work.
Stupid move.
Vance was right about that. She should have listened to her photo agent and negotiated harder, but she had been too afraid of losing the job. She had decided to stop coasting or being casual about her life plans. That meant no more whining.
And look where that had gotten her.
She knocked Vance’s sweaty fingers from her shoulder. “I’d rather suck glass chips through a straw.” She stalked to the Cessna and climbed abroad. The pilot barely noticed her, too busy staring at the dark line of clouds covering the horizon.
Miki turned, following his gaze. “Is something wrong?”
“Not really. We’ve got a little weather moving in, that’s all. Where’s Vance?”
“Back up the beach. Probably grabbing his gear.”
“He’d better hurry up.” The pilot rubbed his neck. “Once we’re up in the air, you should check that your cameras are stowed. That storm is moving in faster than I thought.”
16°58’ south latitude
152°12’ west longitude
MIKI COULDN’T DRAG HER eyes away from the wall of gray clouds. Slouched beside her, Vance muttered crossly, avoiding eye contact. Dutch, the pilot, hadn’t spoken since they’d lifted off, but he’d consulted his watch twice and his fingers were tight on the controls.
A pilot with white knuckles was never a good sign.
“What the hell’s going on out there?” Vance snapped. “You said that tropical depression was moving to the south. You said—”
“I was wrong.” The pilot didn’t glance up. “And if you’re asking why I didn’t know sooner, it’s because you insisted on renting the oldest plane you could find. I told you the nav and comm equipment was out of date.”
Code Name: Blondie Page 1