Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  “Congratulations. Next week we'll work on wind sprints.”

  “I could learn to hate you, McKay.”

  His hand settled briefly on her cheek. “You're afraid of me for some reason, but you don't hate me.”

  Carly closed her eyes as he carried her through the quiet house. “The great swami sees all, knows all.”

  “It doesn't take a swami to see that you're uneasy.” There was a steely edge to his voice. “I won't cross the line, if that's what's worrying you.”

  Despite all her efforts, her head sank against his chest.

  “Why should I believe that?” she asked sleepily. “Why should I trust a stranger?”

  “Because you can.”

  He carried her into a room with yellow walls and a white bed draped with white gauze curtains. She was too tired to ask or argue, too tired to keep her hands from circling his shoulders, burrowing closer against his warmth.

  She was too tired to pretend she didn't hurt, didn't want a shoulder to lean on, just for a while.

  “Go to sleep,” he said, setting her gently on the bed. Through the open French doors came the distant crash of the surf and a breeze rich with citrus and roses.

  “What about you?”

  “I'll be nearby.”

  Carly looked up at him, touching his cheek. “Who are you, McKay? I don't know anything about you that counts.”

  “I'm the man who'll be watching over you while you sleep.” A muscle moved at his jaw. “None of the rest matters.”

  Paradise Cay was nice real estate, McKay decided, assuming you had a thing for extravagant multimillion-dollar homes. Since his lifestyle demanded a minimum of possessions and a maximum of mobility, he let his gaze skim past the English hunting prints and old Japanese porcelain, focusing instead on the house's interior security. He picked out infrared-beam motion detectors and pressure-sensitive mats. Doors and windows were wired to an internal alarm system.

  Adequate, but hardly spectacular.

  He made a mental note to check out the rest of the interior as soon as he reviewed the staff.

  He found Archer in a garden at the side of the house, cutting roses that looked too perfect to be real. “I have some questions,” he said.

  Archer's big, powerful hands moved with skill, even tenderness, over the vines that clung to every inch of the east face of the house. “I'm happy to assist any way I can.”

  McKay watched the big, competent hands coax a blush-pink bud from gray-green leaves. “I expect you're responsible for a lot more than floral decorations in your work for Nigel Brandon, so I'll get to the point. I need to know the security layout here, including alarm systems, guards, and police patrol schedule. As you know, there was a problem, but it's not going to be repeated.”

  Archer pruned a stem expertly, nodding. “I'll see that you receive complete floor plans of the house and a layout of the estate, along with detailed staff schedules.”

  “I'll need names and photographs along with job descriptions.”

  “To be sure each person is where they should be when they should be?”

  “That's the general idea.”

  Archer's brow rose. “Everyone on the staff was hand-picked by Patrick Brandon. Many of them have worked at Paradise Cay for two decades.”

  McKay crossed his arms. “Loyalty can be fickle.”

  “Your thoroughness is commendable, though disturbing. How else may I assist you?”

  “What's your assessment of the situation?” McKay expected that a man like Archer wouldn't miss much. His impressions could be invaluable, especially since he was an insider.

  “Santa Marina is a success story and everyone wants a part of that success.”

  McKay toyed with a crimson rose. “Criminals, too?”

  “Sometimes. They talk, they make offers, and they threaten, but Mr. Brandon sees they are given no toehold on Santa Marina.”

  “What about Inspector St. John? Have you known him long?”

  “At least three decades. We played cricket together. A good man.”

  McKay nodded. From what he had seen and read, Archer's assessments matched his own. “What about the grounds?”

  “In addition to the domestic staff, there are three men here at all times for security.”

  “Armed?”

  “Knives. There has never been a need for other weapons.”

  “There is now,” McKay said grimly. “I was told that Inspector St. John has posted several of his men on the grounds, too. I'd like their names and photographs.”

  Archer trimmed a brown leaf from a perfect white rose. “I'll arrange it.”

  “What about beach access? I noticed a path leading from the swimming pool down through the woods.”

  “The beach is private, cut off by rocks at both ends. The cove is too shallow for large ships, but smaller vessels pass nearby. Paradise Cay stands on its own headland and at night the lights are visible for miles at sea.”

  McKay rubbed his jaw. “Any way to discourage visitors?”

  “A heavy gate runs along the end of the steps, but it has never been closed in my years with the Brandon family.”

  “Close it,” McKay said flatly. “It won't keep determined intruders away, but it could slow them down. And I want someone posted on the beach at all times.”

  “You're very careful,” Archer mused. “For a rancher from Wyoming, I believe.”

  McKay gave a tight grin. “You should see me bring down a steer. It's a sight to behold. How about a tour of the house and grounds?”

  “In that case, why don't you take these.” Archer handed McKay a rainbow array of cut blooms, picked up his pruning shears and basket, then led the way into the house. “Have you known Ms. Carly long?”

  “Four days. I saved her from getting backsided by a speeding volleyball.”

  “She must have been most appreciative.”

  “Not particularly. I misunderstood her business proposal for something more … personal. Women don't like being misunderstood.”

  “She appears to have recovered from her displeasure.”

  “If she has, I'd say that's her business,” McKay said pleasantly.

  “She is part of the family, and that makes her my

  business. You will not wish to cause her pain,” Archer said. “Just as a note of information.”

  McKay shifted the roses to his other arm. “It sounded like a warning to me.”

  “I leave that to your powers of observation.” Archer stopped beside a backlit portrait of a thin-faced Englishman in hunting pinks and an elaborate white wig. “She has always been a popular visitor on Santa Marina. She has never lacked for male companions since she turned sixteen.”

  McKay contemplated the aristocratic figure in the portrait. “Anyone serious?”

  “Is that personal interest or a security question?”

  “Both,” McKay lied.

  “Then ask her.” Archer turned smoothly, opening a swinging door to a bright room with vaulted ceilings. Stainless steel ovens covered one wall, running perpendicular to a white marble counter that held a dozen small appliances. McKay noted a huge subzero freezer, a convection oven, and an indoor grill with an exhaust hood. “Patrick Brandon must like to eat.”

  “He socializes a great deal as part of his work.”

  “Just a few small parties for him and three hundred close friends,” McKay said dryly.

  “Since Paradise Cay is an island showplace, much of his entertaining is done here.” Archer's eyes held wry amusement. “An army still marches on its stomach, Mr. McKay, whether in war or in business.”

  McKay traced the side of a spotless copper pan big enough to hold a suckling pig. “Wellington knew exactly what he was talking about, which is probably why he blistered Napoleon in the end. Provisioning is everything. If a man can't eat, he can't fight.”

  “Something that every rancher from Wyoming would know,” Archer said blandly. He interrupted McKay before he could frame a denial. “There's a vase in the fr
eezer, if you wouldn't mind.”

  McKay was very conscious of Archer's scrutiny as he

  opened the massive walk-in freezer. Inside, meat was carefully sorted packaged and stacked on neat metal shelves. A neighboring wall held exotic chocolates and coffees in airtight canisters. “Those parties must be pretty spectacular.” McKay carried the vase outside and watched the door close, sealing with a hiss.

  There was even a gleaming temperature-controlled wine rack. “Everything the well-bred millionaire needs to enjoy the lifestyle to which he is accustomed.”

  Archer's face was impassive as he took the vase. “There is a much larger wine cellar below the house, of course. Some of the wines down there are a century old.”

  “Of course.” McKay leaned against the polished coun-tertop while the majordomo deftly arranged his roses. “Why the cold vase?”

  “Roses last longer that way—the heat can be a problem here. Things bloom and die faster in the tropics.”

  “You're saying that beauty has its price?”

  Archer didn't look up from his arrangement. “Or that speed has its price. Perhaps both.”

  McKay had a feeling that Archer was talking about more than flowers. They made a thorough circuit, crossing a library with floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves and books that appeared to have been chosen for content, not decoration. Next came the ballroom, eerie and somber in the twilight.

  Archer carefully straightened a fold in one of the damask curtains. “There used to be amazing parties here.” He rattled off the names of two U.S. presidents, several members of the English royal family, and a well-known American starlet who had died tragically, all guests at one time.

  “What about now?”

  “Now most business is transacted discreetly on yachts or over cigars by the pool. Contracts are finalized during a quiet game of thousand-dollar-a-shot billiards in the conservatory.”

  “Nice job if you can get it.”

  Archer's eyes gleamed in the fading light. “Make no mistake, Mr. McKay. The Brandons all work hard, Ms. Daphne perhaps the hardest now that her heart is committed.”

  “I take it you mean to the Tradewind Foundation and not to the banker.”

  “Her fiancé?” Archer stood looking out at the swimming pool, lit by a dozen small metal lanterns amid the banks of bougainvillea. “He is most respectful and he dresses extremely well.”

  After a moment McKay smiled. “And you hate the hell out of him.”

  The man at the window neither agreed nor disagreed. “You still have the upstairs to see.”

  McKay watched Archer pad off down the corridor. If discretion had a human face, it would look just like Archer's, he decided.

  The sky had gone dark by the time they finished checking the house. Next came the tennis courts and pool area, followed by a view over the cliffs to the narrow path that ran down to the cove.

  “There's a man down there now?” McKay asked.

  Archer nodded. “Inspector St. John arranged that this morning.”

  McKay rubbed the back of his neck. Paradise Cay was isolated, but isolation could be deceiving. The estate was far from impregnable, and he meant to follow up every security detail personally, starting with a list of problem areas to be discussed with Nigel Brandon the following morning.

  He turned back toward the house. “We'd better go. I have several calls to make, and Carly might be awake by now.”

  Wind shook the bougainvilleas as they retraced their steps along the winding path. Lights shone in the library, and McKay heard a low scraping sound near the windows.

  Every sense raced to full alert. He plunged through the

  doorway and found Carly at an ornate desk surrounded by sheets of crumpled paper. Her shoulders were hunched as she sketched with quick, restless movements, and whenever she moved, her chair leg scraped against the back of the window.

  “Why am I not surprised?” McKay muttered. “If I gave her a fifty-pound camera, she'd probably try to bench-press it right now.”

  “She has always been very determined.”

  “Determined? Try stubborn, obdurate, intractable.”

  “Very literate. For a rancher from Wyoming,” Archer added under his breath, watching McKay stride toward Carly.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Working. Go away.”

  “Dr. Harris had my promise to keep you quiet. If you refuse, I'll dump you right back in the hospital and see to it that you have no visitors.”

  “I feel great.” As Carly gripped her sketch pad, McKay saw her face tighten. “Why don't you go hound Archer? I prefer to suffer in solitude.”

  “Suffering wasn't part of the doctor's prescription. Neither was solitude.”

  She twisted restlessly in her chair. “I can't relax until I've run through this location list.”

  “Keep this up,” McKay said grimly, “and you won't be able to lift a camera to photograph anything.”

  Carly pulled out another sheet of paper. “I've got to finish. Mel needs this list to finalize her budget.”

  “Mel gave you time off so you can recover.” McKay swept up her sketch pad, scowling. “She's not hounding you; she doesn't have to. You're too busy hounding yourself, dammit.”

  Archer looked from one to the other, smiled faintly, and retreated down the hall. Neither McKay nor Carly noticed.

  “You're going back to bed,” McKay snapped.

  “I'm not sleepy.”

  “Then you can stare at the ceiling or solve differential equations in your head, but you'll do it on your back.”

  “Touch this location list and you're toast, McKay.”

  “I'd be glad to tussle with you, but only after those sutures are out.” Before Carly could react, her papers were jerked away and locked under his arm. “Why do you drive yourself this way?”

  “None of your damned business.” Carly stood angrily. “Stop interfering. Stop … distracting me.” Her hands were white, gripping the back of her chair.

  The pain was brutal, McKay knew. Not that she'd say a word. Stubborn right to the bone.

  He cursed as her eyes filled with tears.

  “I hate being sick. It makes me feel useless.”

  “You're going to be more than sick if you don't stop driving yourself.” He picked her up and headed toward the stairs.

  “I don't trust you, McKay. Just for the record, I'm not sure I even like you.” Carly closed her eyes. “What I'm feeling is an inexplicable aberration. A hormonal surge, nothing personal.” Her head sank onto his shoulder.

  “Are you feeling this… surge right now?”

  Carly sighed. “Definitely.” Her eyes opened and she studied his face. “Daphne says I'm a complete idiot bent on self-destruction. What do you think?”

  His mouth curved. “I'll take the fifth.”

  “She says I'm stressed out big time, but with the right man I'd turn to putty.”

  His body tightened at the thought of Carly turning to putty against him. “Daphne doesn't mince words.”

  “I think she's right. I should do something reckless for a change. Something dangerous.”

  McKay decided that the idea of Carly turning to putty with anyone but him was unthinkable.

  “Want to give me some pointers?”

  “Is that another offer? I wouldn't want to misunderstand you again.”

  “You mean me and you? Any idiot could see I'm way

  below your skill level. Why would you waste your time on me?”

  “I can't imagine,” he said dryly.

  “I meant for you to tell me where to start, what qualities to look for in a man.” She frowned. “Just hypotheti-cally.”

  “Hypothetically,” he repeated hoarsely. “Here's rule number one. If you can consider a man hypothetically, he's the wrong one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don't take a hypothetical man to bed with you. You take a flesh-and-blood person with memories, needs, and an agenda.” He laid her gently in the center of her bed
and sat beside her, cursing the race of his pulse, cursing the heated trend of his thoughts. How had he gotten into this damned discussion?

  Her tongue slid over her mouth, leaving her lips gleaming. “I'll keep that in mind. Anything else I should know?”

  At the thought of her locked against a stranger, McKay's hands fisted.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Not a thing.” Odd but he couldn't drive away the awful image of Carly with another man. He opened his hand and rubbed his chest, dimly aware of a pain that wouldn't go away.

  Satin pillows, linen sheets, and white gauze curtains framed her body as a soft breeze drifted in through the French doors, carrying the low whisper of the surf. He stared at her tumbled hair, her pale skin, her soft mouth, picking every word with care. “Here's rule number two. Choose a man with experience, so he will take the time to do things right. Roses on your pillow, champagne in the moonlight. Kisses that drive you both up for air.”

  Carly shrugged. “It's not going to happen. Everyone's too busy. Too self-absorbed and upwardly mobile,” she said wistfully.

  “The right man would make it happen.” McKay found

  himself gripping the bedpost, mainly to keep from touching her. The tension moved, knotting at his groin. Suddenly he was far too aware of her breath, her skin, her perfume. “The right man would forget agendas and business and everything else while you turned each other inside out.”

  Her eyes darkened in the twilight. “Are we still being hypothetical here?”

  His fingers tightened. He realized her robe had fallen from her shoulders. Beneath it she wore the lace gown Daphne had given her, its ivory fabric molding her breasts and making her skin gleam.

  There was nothing remotely hypothetical about the sudden, hammering desire he felt when he looked at her. If he wasn't careful, he'd be shredding her gown and exploring all those ladylike curves.

  “Sure we are,” he said gruffly. “Absolutely.” For a lie, it came out surprisingly well. Muttering a curse, he slid from the bed and tugged up the linen sheet. Even at that small movement, she winced, proving that what she needed most was a long rest.

  And what he needed most was a long, cold shower.

  McKay palmed the pain pills she was resolutely ignoring and shook out one tablet onto his hand. “Take it. I can see you're fighting the pain.”