Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  “The flowers are from me, the chocolate from Daphne. In addition, we hope you will fly back to Santa Marina with us when you leave the hospital. I've missed having noise and turmoil at the estate, and you two always make me feel young again.”

  Carly grinned. “Or very irritated.”

  Brandon raised one brow, every inch the distinguished and powerful public official. But the warmth in his eyes enfolded Carly, just as it had the first summer she'd spent with Daphne in the islands. “Not in the slightest. Will you come?”

  “I wish I could, Uncle Nigel.” Carly sighed. “But I can't possibly leave this project in the middle.”

  “I told him you'd say that.” Daphne sent her father a smug look, waving a set of keys. “Uncle Patrick's estate

  is only thirty minutes away, and everything's arranged with the staff. You'll love Paradise Cay.”

  “But I—”

  “There'll just be you and McKay along with half a dozen of my uncle's staff.”

  “Why McKay?” Carly asked suspiciously.

  “Because you'll try to overwork. If McKay's there, he'll keep you in line.” Daphne smiled innocently. “I phoned your boss in New York and she agrees with me.”

  “You did what?” Carly closed her eyes. Daphne and her father never thought twice about meddling when they were convinced they were right—and they generally were.

  “Mel was wonderful. Your footage has created a real stir. Thanks to you, the CEO of the cruise line wants to triple their ads.”

  Carly couldn't seem to breathe. “Triple?”

  “That's what Mel said. While the lawyers thrash out a new contract, you are hereby instructed to take R and R on Barbados, then pick up the cruise ship on its return to Miami. Mel wants you to think about some new ideas, of course, but nothing concrete until the lawyers are finished. In short, you have nothing to do but rest for a few days.”

  “Triple,” Carly repeated breathlessly, sinking back against her pillows. “That means we could add a water sequence, maybe some snorkeling. Even scenes of nightlife aboard the ship.”

  “You could shoot the snorkeling scene right at Paradise Cay. There's a gorgeous beach that's completely private.”

  “Enough talk about work.” Nigel gripped Carly's hand tightly, almost convulsively. “Rest, that's an order. Now I need to go talk with Mr. McKay.”

  Carly stiffened. “Why?”

  “I want his description of what happened.”

  “Daphne and I can tell you that. Why do you need his version?”

  “The more information we have, the sooner we'll find the people who did this. I want them all behind bars for what they did,” Brandon said savagely. “But that's my worry, not yours.”

  Carly sighed. As usual, they had pegged her just right. It would be a relief to leave the hospital, and the privacy at Paradise Cay would give her a chance to take some sample shots of McKay. Maybe something with mist and water in the free-form rock spa.

  The thought left an odd hitch in her chest.

  “Go on,” Daphne said to her father. “I know you have appointments this afternoon. I'll take care of Carly.” She swung her leather bag over her shoulder. “But first I'm going for coffee.”

  “Shouldn't you skip the coffee now?” Carly caught Daphne's warning look. “I mean—you've had five cups already.”

  Brandon studied his daughter with concern. “You are looking edgy, my dear. Maybe you should see a doctor while you're here.”

  “Don't start nagging or I'll ask why you were up pacing half the night.”

  Brandon frowned. “Bloody paperwork, nothing more.”

  “You'd tell me if there was something wrong.” Daphne's voice grew tight. “You would, wouldn't you? No secrets?”

  “Absolutely.” Brandon cleared his throat. “You, my dear, are to do nothing,” he said sternly to Carly. “I'll have my spies checking just to be certain. All I can say is I'm sorry. I'd give anything if all this had never happened.” His hands fisted, then opened slowly as he bent to give her a hug. “Now rest.”

  Daphne shook her head as the door closed behind him. “There's something wrong, I know it. He's quarreled with his staff, which he never does. Lately he broods, staring at the ocean and saying nothing. If I can't work the truth out of him, I'll tackle Inspector St. John. Remember

  when he caught us trying to run away to St. Thomas one summer?” Daphne smiled at the memory. “He pointed to his car, drove us home, and never said a word to anyone. We were in misery for weeks, certain he would blow the whistle on us, but he never did. It seems like yesterday, doesn't it?”

  There was no answer.

  Carly was sound sleep.

  Daphne straightened the covers, but her eyes, as she watched Carly sleep, were dark with worry.

  The governor-general of Santa Marina looked like a man trying hard to convince the world and himself that his problems were small ones, though the lines of strain around his eyes argued otherwise.

  “First of all, Mr. McKay, I want to thank you for saving the lives of two people I love greatly.”

  McKay rubbed his jaw, wishing he had taken the time to shave before their meeting. “No thanks necessary, sir. The ladies managed very well on their own. Your daughter took down one man with a champagne bottle, and Carly finished him off with a rusty pipe.”

  The two men were sitting in a secluded courtyard at the rear of the hospital. Sunlight filtered through fronds of lush bamboo ringing a pool filled with goldfish.

  The surroundings should have been restful, but Brandon looked anything but calm as he measured McKay. “I won't fault you for what happened at the waterfall. None of us saw it coming. But I can't say I like it.” He took an angry breath. “You've been fully briefed?”

  McKay nodded. “You've been receiving threats from an undetermined source. I'm to provide Carly Sullivan with round-the-clock protection until the situation is resolved.”

  Brandon's eyes were probing. “The cruise-line documents list you as a rancher from Wyoming off for some sun and fun in the Caribbean. I pulled strings to get

  someone here, and I want to be sure you're the best. Are you one of those Delta Force men?”

  McKay said nothing.

  Brandon steepled his fingers. “Navy SEAL?”

  “I'm the man who'll do the job, sir.”

  “And that's all I need to know? When Carly came close to being killed and is lying in a hospital bed?” The governor tossed a piece of gravel from hand to hand, his expression savage. “Understand this: My life doesn't matter, but my daughter's does, as does Carly's. I want assurance that if another attack occurs, you won't bungle things. One man isn't enough.”

  McKay clamped down hard on his anger. “I have all the support I need sir. If circumstances warrant more manpower, it will be available.” He weighed his next words carefully. “Meanwhile, you might want to ask why St. John and his people didn't notice the presence of one sniper and two associates until the attack was already in progress.”

  Brandon waved his hand impatiently. “A mistake, certainly, but St. John has explained that. There was a school bus caught in the middle of the road and his men had to push it out of harm's way. He offered his resignation for the mistake. I turned him down.”

  McKay rubbed his jaw. “Check on the driver and the bus company,” he suggested. “And consider putting a new protection team on your daughter. When their faces aren't known, men work more efficiently.”

  “Good point. But what about Carly?”

  “I'll be keeping her close. No one will get to her again.”

  Brandon stared at him in stony silence. At the other end of the pool a goldfish burst to the surface, rocking the overhanging bamboo. “I want whoever did this caught and locked behind bars.” His tone implied that he wanted even worse done to them, but was managing to control the instinct. “I want them soon, McKay.”

  “Perfectly understandable. Who are your most likely candidates?”

  “Our criminals have never attacked po
litical targets before, but we're not ruling them out. We're also checking newcomers from Jamaica who've been scouting territory in Santa Marina.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Brandon frowned at a pair of carp gliding in the shadowed depths. “Do you know a man named Nikolai Vronski?”

  “A Russian?”

  Brandon picked up a piece of bread from the bench and tossed it into the water. “Part Russian, part Gypsy, part Kirghiz. He used to be highly placed in the government. Later he moved abroad to pursue lucrative joint ventures in Albania and Southeast Asia. Six months ago he contacted me about a possible business venture. We were supposed to have our first meeting this week, but Vronski pulled out suddenly, and I haven't heard from him since.”

  “You think there's a connection?” McKay hid his impatience. If Vronski had become a key suspect, McKay should have been informed immediately.

  “So far he checks out, and the capital investment he's proposed for Santa Marina would be a considerable boon to modernizing our port facilities. On the face of things the project looks perfectly solid. In spite of that, I believe I'll dig deeper.”

  Waves rippled against the stones at their feet as Brandon tossed out another piece of bread. “I pulled strings to get you here, McKay. I won't apologize for that. Carly needs my protection now, just as she did after her parents were lost.” His mouth curved slightly. “I still remember her first visit to Santa Marina and all the trouble she and Daphne brewed between them.” Still smiling, he reached into his pocket. “Here are the keys to my Triumph. It pulls slightly to the right on the curves.”

  “I'm not planning on driving anywhere.”

  “Yes, you are. My brother has an estate here on Barbados, though he's often in Europe these days. I've

  arranged for you to take Carly there while she recovers. I hope you'll consider Paradise Cay as your own.”

  “I don't think that's a good idea.”

  “Odd Carly seemed to think the same thing.”

  He was being maneuvered McKay knew, and he didn't like it one damned bit. “I'll have to check with Washington.”

  “No need. Everything's been cleared. Strings, remember? I didn't become governor-general without knowing when to cash in old debts.”

  “I'll check, just the same.”

  “As you wish. Meanwhile, Daphne and I are staying in a secure location in Bridgetown. I'll speak to St. John about a new protection team for my daughter. Now I'd better go rescue Carly from Daphne before exhaustion sets in.”

  “You should be proud of Daphne. She doesn't scare easily. She's also got great aim with a champagne bottle.”

  “I am extremely proud of her.” Overhead the tall trunks of bamboo creaked in the wind. “Of both of them. I'll leave Carly in your hands. God help you if you let anyone hurt her again.” And then he was gone, the bamboo fronds waving delicately behind him.

  “Things are heating up.” Izzy's voice was tinny but otherwise clear through the secure cell phone he had provided McKay before they had left the ship.

  “Damned right. What story are you using to explain your unexpected absence from the ship?”

  Izzy gave a racking cough. “Some kind of terrible bronchitis. I'm really laid low. I'll probably be sick for a week.”

  “Just in time to join the cruise ship on its return swing,” McKay said dryly

  “No doubt of it. In fact, my illness is entirely at your disposal, chief.” Izzy's voice tightened. “How's Carly?”

  “Healthy enough to be arguing again. Brandon

  arranged for us to stay at his brother's estate here on Barbados while she recovers. We leave tomorrow.”

  “Fast work.”

  “The man knows how to pull strings with the best of them.” McKay paced the deserted corridor, his voice low. “Brandon mentioned a Russian interested in port development in Santa Marina. Nikolai Vronski—what else do we have on him?”

  “He's been involved in dozens of speculative joint ventures in Southeast Asia. He's successful, but not well liked. Seems he wants things done only one way.”

  “His,” McKay concluded dryly. “Still, it's not a crime to be arrogant and egotistical. What about the driver of the bus that stalled so conveniently?”

  “I tapped into the local police computers, and according to their investigation, he was not a resident of Barbados, just a fill-in driver for the day. The police checked his address and found it was an abandoned warehouse. Here's the interesting thing: One of the other drivers noticed he had a wallet full of crisp U.S. hundreds.”

  McKay watched the door to Carly's room. “Nice money for driving a bus. I'd enjoy a chat with our friend.”

  “Don't hold your breath. The Barbados police haven't found him yet. He could be in Miami or Munich by now. He had enough juice to get just about anywhere.”

  “Keep at it, Izzy.”

  “Russian tanks couldn't keep me away. If the situation starts heading south, I know a secondary location on the island. The house belongs to an old friend from my Thailand days, someone you can trust without question. Keep it in mind.”

  “I will. It's always nice to have a Plan B. Meanwhile, I want notice of anything unusual in the hospital or on the grounds.”

  “I'm on it. Brandon gave me a contact in security who's keeping me briefed.”

  “Right now I don't trust anyone. We rely on firsthand information only, understood?”

  “That's a roger. Anything else?”

  The conversation with Daphne's father continued to nag at McKay. “See what you can dig up on the Russian, Vronski. Brandon seemed worried, as if he wanted the deal to be solid but he had his doubts.”

  “Too good to be true, maybe?”

  “Something like that. Dig deep.” McKay fingered the welts at his neck. “Let's find out why Comrade Vronski isn't winning any popularity contests around the world.”

  “Will do. Expect a call at 1800 hours. Meanwhile, keep your powder dry.”

  “That and everything else,” McKay muttered.

  Twenty-four hours crept past. Carly watched the ceiling and stared at her unpolished fingernails.

  By the time Dr. Harris gave approval for her to leave, she was fully dressed and ready to go out of her mind.

  “Is the equipment squared away?” she asked Hank, who had come to see her off.

  “All done, boss. The sum total of damage to the equipment was one camera and one tripod.”

  “Thank heavens for that.”

  “Yeah, pretty strange. All those valuable electronics, and those creeps didn't steal a thing.”

  “I doubt they're big in the brains department, Hank. That explains why they're bushwhacking tourists rather than running legitimate businesses in Bridgetown.”

  “I still think it's odd.” Hank took the bag Carly was fussing with, zipped it expertly, and stowed it at the foot of the bed. “So what's next?”

  “I'll phone you from Paradise Cay over the weekend after I work through a few ideas.”

  “Don't rush on my account.” The cameraman stretched lazily. “I plan to be hard at work sampling rum punches by the pool for the next twenty-four hours. You should forget about work for a few days, too. Concentrate on getting well.” He beamed at her. “Maybe have a fling—avoiding those stitches, of course. I can imagine a dozen ways to spend the time off. Not one of them involves a light meter.” His brow rose. “Unless it's used very creatively.”

  “I'm going to rest and then I'm going to work,” Carly said firmly. “Romance isn't anywhere in the picture.”

  “Whatever you say.” Hank glanced at his watch. “Almost noon.”

  Carly stared at him suspiciously. “Expecting someone?”

  “McKay. He told me to—”

  The door opened, and McKay strode in as if he owned the hospital, looking tall, lean, and dangerous in black jeans and a black jacket. He scanned the room, saw Carly reach for her bag, and picked it up without a word.

  “I can carry my own things, thank you.”

&n
bsp; “We can argue feminist theory some other time.”

  Carly swallowed her protest. Her side was hurting and she wanted to leave before she was tempted to sink back onto the bed. “I have to say goodbye to Daphne and Uncle Nigel.”

  “No need. They're going to meet us at Paradise Cay.”

  “Time to hit the road, boss.” Hank rolled a wheelchair over from the door. Balloons decorated the back, and a huge floppy bear sat on the seat. “All yours.”

  “I can walk,” Carly said stiffly.

  “Relax and enjoy it.” McKay pushed her gently into the chair, then set the bear on her lap. “You two look good together.” He moved behind the chair and nodded at Hank. “I'll handle the hard case from here.”

  “Sure.” The veteran cameraman studied McKay in silence, then nodded. “Take care of her. If anyone can, it's you. I'm on call if you need me.”

  To Carly's amazement, he gave a crisp salute, turned sharply, and marched from the room. She thought he muttered “semper fi” as the door closed.

  “What did Hank mean?”

  They were threading through heavy Bridgetown

  traffic. McKay was savoring the hair-trigger responsiveness of Nigel Brandon's vintage Triumph and trying not to notice Carly staring at him. “You mean the salute?” He swept neatly past a smoke-belching truck. “It was a mistake. He took me for a Marine.”

  “Because of the semper fi thing.” Carly tilted her head “Are you?”

  “I am not, nor have I ever been, a member of the illustrious United States Marine Corps,” McKay said dryly.

  “There must have been some reason he said that.”

  “Maybe it was his idea of a joke.”

  “No way,” Carly said thoughtfully. “Hank was a Marine. He considers it some sacred brotherhood thing. He'd never joke about it.”

  McKay shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Carly studied him some more, and he felt the force of her deliberation. “I still can't believe Uncle Nigel let you drive his Triumph. This car is his pride and joy. He never lets anyone near it, even Daphne.” Carly frowned as they shot past a stalled bus, then maneuvered deftly around an old man on a bicycle. “I suppose he was right to let you drive. Your reflexes are amazing.” She stiffened as McKay cut past a delivery van with inches to spare. “Where did you learn that?”