“I don't want to be groggy. Besides, I have to work. Work will take my mind off all the rest.”
Without a word, McKay strode to the telephone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Dr. Harris.”
“You wouldn't.”
McKay began to dial.
“Fine, just fine. Give me the blasted pill.” With anger in every movement, Carly downed the medicine. “You still haven't told me anything about you.”
“We'll talk about it later.”
“No, we won't.” She lay stiffly as he pulled a quilt over her and flicked off the light. “And I don't take orders.” She yawned. “I hate taking orders.”
Girding himself for another argument, McKay turned back to the bed.
She was already asleep, one hand beneath her pale cheek and her body curled beneath the quilt. Exasperation gave way to wry amusement as he stood in the darkness, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest while moonlight traced her cheeks.
He thought, not for the first time, how lucky they both were that she wasn't close to being his type.
In the darkness, in the silence, Nigel Brandon put down the telephone, replaying his last conversation, nuance by careful nuance.
Deception he understood. Greed equally well. Both were at work now.
He walked to the window, watching lights dart and shimmer in Bridgetown's busy harbor where yachts and trawlers, sloops and small rowboats rocked at anchor.
Free enterprise in all its rich diversity.
As he stared out, something continued to nag, to gnaw.
He walked back to the phone and dialed swiftly. “Inspector St. John, please,” he said. “Immediately.”
Two calls to make, he thought.
He hoped he hadn't waited too long for either.
Carly opened her eyes, stretching gingerly in the channel of sunlight coming through the window. Then she froze.
McKay stood in the doorway.
Staring, just staring.
She sat up slowly. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you sleep.” He wore jeans, low and snug at his lean hips. His chest was bare, still damp from a shower.
Carly swallowed a quivering knot of pure lust. “Adding voyeurism to your many character defects, McKay?”
His laugh surprised her, rich and relaxed. “I'm glad to see that you're feeling your old nasty self. Care for breakfast? Archer's been busy this morning.” He lifted a tray from the nearby table, not waiting for her answer.
Carly inhaled then closed her eyes on a sigh. “If that's coffee you're carrying, you can name your price. Car, apartment, or bank account.”
“In case you're unaware, bribery is illegal.” He slid a steaming cup of cappuccino into her hands.
Carly savored a long, rich sip. “Archer is a genius. A dozen hotels have tried to steal him away, but he refuses to leave.” She scanned the covered dishes on the tray. “Stay back. If Archer's famous avocado, mango, and bacon omelet is hiding under one of these silver covers, things might get messy.”
“Bingo.” McKay held out a warm plate with a steaming omelet accompanied by wafer-thin fried potatoes and papaya salsa. “I figure nothing can taste as good as this looks.”
Carly took a bite. “Even better. The man hasn't lost his touch.” She glanced up. “Why aren't you eating? If I know Archer, there's enough food for most of Barbados here.”
“Already ate. Not all of us can sleep until eleven.”
Startled Carly looked at the bedside clock. “I never sleep past seven.” She frowned worrying her lip. “I need to start some sketches, then take a few test shots before—”
“Eat. Archer will be very unpleasant if any of that omelet remains. He told me that very clearly.”
Carly began to eat, eyeing him warily. “You're being awfully nice. You must want something.” Her fork froze in midair. “There isn't bad news, is there? If something's wrong with Daphne or Uncle Nigel—”
“They're fine.”
Relief left her giddy, and she drank more of Archer's potent cappuccino to compensate. “Then let's have the bad news. Something's already wrong or it's about to be wrong, I can feel it along my shoulders.”
“Nothing's wrong.” McKay uncovered a plate with a goat-cheese crepe and fresh strawberries. He stole a bite before sliding it onto Carly's plate. “Just laying down the ground rules.”
“I don't care for the sound of that.”
“Relax. That's rule number one. Eating is rule number two. And if you have work to do or things to fetch, call me.”
“Another rule?” she asked stiffly.
“Merely a suggestion. I can help you, so let me.” He poured a cup of cappuccino and turned it slowly on a saucer. “I have some things in mind to fill your time.”
Carly pushed away her empty plate. “No more of that fitness stuff. I've had my dose for the year.”
He took her tray, then gestured toward the door. “Actually, this is something I think you'll enjoy.”
Carly shrugged on a robe and followed him down the hall, reluctance in every step. “I want to work.”
“And you will. One half hour of work for every three hours of rest. That's rule number three.”
She came to a quivering, furious halt. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, McKay. You have no right, absolutely no right to—”
“Dr. Harris agrees with the me.”
“Oh she does, does she? How long have you two been plotting and planning this?”
McKay studied his sleek black watch. “One hour and thirteen minutes. Approximately.”
“I won't be—be handled this way.”
“Nigel Brandon agrees, too.”
“You called him?”
“He called me. He's dropping by later to see how you're doing. Meanwhile, if you want to work, you have to rest. Otherwise, you go back to the hospital.”
Carly jammed her hands in her pockets. “And just how am I supposed to relax? With a mint julep and a sandal-wood fan? By giving myself a pedicure?”
McKay took her arm, hiding a smile. “Anyone ever tell you you're beautiful when you're angry?”
“No, and don't start now.” Her eyes widened as he opened a set of doors at the end of the second-floor hallway. “If this is some sort of spa thing, I'm out of here.”
“See for yourself.”
She stepped inside and all protests fled. Speechless, she ran a finger along velvet cushions and a gleaming lacquer projection table. “It's a screening room,” she said with hushed awe. “One of the best I've ever seen.” She struggled for composure. “Of course, the collection is probably limited. Quirky. You know, action thrillers and a few Fred Astaire.”
McKay pressed a button and a lacquered cabinet door slid open to reveal floor-to-ceiling shelves with hundreds of neatly labeled videos. Another area held DVDs. Carly braced one hand on the back of a velvet chair. “Did the earth just move for you, too?”
There was a glint in McKay's eyes. “If it happens, I'll be sure to tell you.” He ran a finger along the labeled rows. “So what will it be? We've got all the greats here.”
Carly raised an eyebrow. “No, don't tell me. For you, that would be Road Warrior and Pulp Fiction.” She crossed her arms smugly. “Right?”
McKay went to a shelf, pulled out a tape, and tossed it to Carly.
“The Godfather? Okay, it was decent work, assuming you can forget the gory horse-head scene.”
“Forget? That was American cinema at its finest.”
“No way.” Carly slid the tape back into its slot. “If you want classic, there's only one choice. Great plot, an amazing cast, and music that lingers.” She moved along the alphabetized rows, selected a tape, and waved it at McKay. “The best of the best, as fresh today as it was in 1942. Won three Oscars. ‘Here's looking at you, kid.’ ”
“‘We'll always have Paris,’” McKay countered. “Okay, Bogie works for me. Take a seat. Archer gave me full operating instructions. He even made
us food.”
When Carly was comfortable in the front center seat, he flicked a remote and sent the room into darkness. Without a word he handed her a bowl of popcorn drowning in decadent swirls of butter, then eased her back against his shoulder as stirring strains of music filled the room.
In minutes Carly was swept away to Rick's smoky café in war-torn Casablanca.
They were arguing even before the final credits began.
“No way. Bogart was good but he was better in To Have and Have Not. And what about The Maltese Falcon?” Carly huffed.
“Competent, but I'll still take Brando or Pacino in The Godfather or John Wayne in The Searchers.” McKay stood up and stretched. “I almost forgot Gary Cooper in High Noon”
“Yes, but—” Carly stopped as Archer appeared.
“Ms. Kirk is downstairs to speak with you. She looks quite upset.”
“I'll be right there. There must be another schedule change.” Carly looked down and realized she was still in her robe and nightgown. “I can't see her dressed like this.”
“Why not? You're supposed to be having R and R.”
Carly stood uncertainly in the doorway, then shrugged. “You've got a point. I'd better go.”
“I'll be nearby if you need me.”
Carly couldn't imagine why she'd need his help for a simple conversation with her boss. “Thanks. If a fight breaks out, I'll be sure to call you.”
When she opened the door to the sunny study overlooking the pool, she was surprised to find Mel pacing nervously, her hands at her back. Hank was sitting in a chair near the window, a camera bag at his feet. “Mel, I'm glad you and Hank could come. But why—”
“No, don't say a word. I have to get this off my chest first. I haven't slept all night and I want you to understand that I fought them every step of the way.”
“Fought who? What do you mean?”
Mel tugged at one earring. “Those slack-jawed fools in New York who can't see anything but balance sheets,” she said viciously. She glanced toward the door. “Is McKay still here?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. He should be here. Make him stay. You two take some time off, as much as you like. If money's a problem, I'll pay.”
“Time off? But you said—”
“I know exactly what I said and what I planned, but I've been overruled by a bunch of tightwad accountants with
liver spots for brains. Men who wouldn't understand energy and creativity if they bit them on their bony asses.”
“What she means,” Hank said tightly, “is that you've been replaced.”
Carly's hands went to her stomach as pain burned deep. “I've been pulled?” She felt a tremor race through her. “Fired?”
Hank nodded, his experienced eyes filling with sympathy. “They started whining about the costs after the incident at the waterfall. They said they didn't want production delayed but my guess is that they're really afraid of liability. Mel fought them tooth and nail, even offered to sign waivers. She assured them you'd be better and faster than anyone else they could find. Of course, this business with Griff in Martinique hasn't helped matters.”
Carly wasn't aware of McKay behind her until he touched her shoulders. “Maybe you'd better sit down,” he said gently. But as he studied Hank, his eyes were icy. “Maybe we should all sit down for the explanation.”
Carly sank into a wing chair, feeling nothing but stabbing pain in her stomach. “What about Griff?”
“He gave a press conference, the little weasel.” Hank toed the edge of his long camera case. “He and his girlfriend have been complaining to anyone who'll listen that you demanded money from them under the table. According to their story, when they wouldn't pay up, you arranged for someone else to fill in for the body shots. Now the media are on it and the client's furious at the bad publicity.”
Carly ran shaky hands over her face. “I never asked Griff for a penny. Ask Daphne. Ask anyone.”
Mel leaned close and gripped her hand. “I know that and so does everyone else who's worked with you. You'd never compromise your vision for money.” She smiled thinly. “We've argued over that particular issue often enough. Griff is just trying to recoup his losses and twist things so he comes out looking like a poor, misused
victim. I had no idea he was such a barracuda, or I never would have hired him.” Mel patted Carly's shoulder. “Don't give up hope. I'm flying back tonight to meet with the client and his bean counters to convince them these accusations are groundless. Daphne and Hank have helped me put together a new film clip from the old footage, and I plan to use it very effectively. If I have my way, you'll be back at work in a week.”
Carly stared blindly at the floor, reeling from the unexpected blow. “Thanks for all you're doing, Mel.” It was a struggle to speak, to think against the roar in her head.
“To hell with thanks. Just get yourself well, then plan some more fabulous footage. Once I have you reinstated, we'll have to move fast.”
“If I'm reinstated.” The words trailed off.
“You will be.”
Carly heard McKay move behind her. “Here's another tidbit to toss in at your meeting,” he said coldly. “If you want me involved, the job is Carly's. Otherwise I'm not interested.”
Mel's smile was slow and feral. “I like how you think, McKay. Yes, I'd say that's going to help a great deal. The client's wife seemed very taken with you, and I doubt she'll want a replacement.”
McKay's eyes narrowed. “That's the deal. If Carly's out, I'm out.”
“You hear that, Hank?” Mel called to the smiling cameraman.
“Every word.”
“Good. Now let's get going. I've got a nasty little war to plan.” She tugged on her sleek, black jacket. “I'll send word as soon as I have something solid. Meanwhile, you stay put, and keep that fertile brain working.”
“Of course,” Carly said mechanically. Her fingers refused to stop twisting. Back and forth, back and forth. “I'll—see what I can come up with.”
Mel exchanged a worried glance with McKay, then drew a breath. “There's one more thing. I don't like it, but
it's standard procedure under the circumstances. I… I have to ask for your camera equipment and any film you shot as part of this assignment.”
The words slashed deep, leaving Carly shaken. “Film? My working camera and equipment…” She drove back the tears and hurt. “Of course. Since I'm fired.”
“Temporarily,” Mel said tightly. “As temporarily as I can make this. You can still work with your own camera.”
“I didn't bring equipment of my own. I didn't expect to need any.” Carly stared blankly out the window. “My case is downstairs. I'll go find it.”
“Hank will help you. I don't like this, Carly. Actually, I hate it. But we'll have everything straightened out soon.”
The words came in a blur. Carly felt McKay's hand on her shoulder in a hard grip. When he stood back and opened the door, she was surprised at the anger that burned in his eyes.
Not his fight. Not his problem. The man hated cameras. He should be relieved to be done with the whole business.
She shook her head unable to think of anything beyond what she had to do next: packing up the gear that she'd babied and cherished to produce a dozen outstanding projects. She knew that when she closed the case and turned it over, the pain would be like losing her right hand.
“I'll get them back.” Her fingers closed to quivering fists. “No mush-for-brains actor like Griffin Kelly is going to stop me from finishing this shoot.”
“That's the idea. Fight back. The little weasel will fold as soon as he gets one good shove. I only wish I were there to deliver it personally.”
Carly reached out blindly and squeezed his hand. “Thanks. In case things don't work out, I want to tell you you're the best I've ever worked with, Hank.” Her throat was dry and tight. No matter how she struggled, tears threatened.
“Hell.” The big man cleared his throat. “Let's go get
this wrapped up. I'm flying back to New York with Mel, and there are a few heads I'm going to bash in as soon as I get there.”
Upstairs in the quiet study, McKay watched Mel pace. Now that Carly had gone, she was considerably more agitated.
“Is it true?” he snapped. “Can you get her job back?”
“I'm going to give it my best shot, but reinstatement won't be easy. Griffin said some damaging things at a sensitive time.”
“All lies.”
“Of course they were. But they still cause damage.” She strode to the door, then turned. “You'll stay on here?”
“As long as I can.”
“Good. This goes beyond work with Carly, beyond mere dedication.” She blew out an angry breath. “It's going to cut her off at the knees. Take care of her.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
She nodded. “I figured you would. Once it really hits, she'll need to talk, to cry.”
“I'll be here,” he said tightly. “You can count on that.”
Mel smiled and for the first time all day there was a glimmer of pleasure in her eyes. “That's exactly what I hoped to hear you say.”
She stood at the window above the sea, her mind a blank.
It could have been hours before the stirring of the curtain against her cheek broke through her wall of pain.
As awareness returned instinct made her check her watch before tackling the afternoon's work.
Except there was no work. Job, equipment, and deepest identity had been stripped away by the malicious lies of people with no talent and no scruples.
Carly pressed a shaky hand against her eyes. She was her work, and she measured nearly all the joy she knew in the quiet moments of planning or in the wild flood of creative power that swept over her when a shoot went well.
Now all that joy had been ripped from her.
She stared at her hands, clenched on the windowsill, sun dappled and tense. These hands had fussed and finessed straining to claim a square of light or a curve of shadows against a world that never stood still. Her heart had sung to that chase, every skill awakened.
Going Overboard Page 13