Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  But not now.

  Her fingers tightened. Word traveled fast in her small, competitive world. There would be a sprinkling of sympathy calls and even more calls from the curious or outright gleeful. Then the offers would dwindle and her fees would plummet.

  Inside a week everyone in their business would know the story—true or not—and her career would be wrecked.

  Fair or not.

  The ocean stretched before her, savagely beautiful in the heat of midday. Its vast, azure sweep seemed to enchant even as it mocked shrinking all her worries into insignificance. For Carly, only one photographer had ever caught the sea's fierce beauty and terrible allure. The framed photograph stood on a shelf behind her. There beneath towering skies rose the granite fingers of Ouessant, a fog-shrouded island in the Sea of Brittany.

  Carly had no need to turn to see those deadly rocks banked high with sea spray. She carried the photo when she traveled a reminder of the mother she had never understood, the mother who had been drawn inexorably by an island that claimed wrecks like a Siren claimed lovers. Carly whispered the ancient curse that every French seaman knew too well:

  “Qui voit Ouessant voit son sang” Who sees the rocks of Ouessant sees his own blood.

  The photo was her mother's finest work, finished less than a month before her death.

  Carly saw the rocks now, ancient and hungry, a place where wild winds carried the wail of desperate ghosts determined to drag the living down to share their restless graves. It was a place where dreams were shattered and life lost all meaning. To Carly, that would always be the heart of the sea, endlessly taking, endlessly consuming, permitting no master but itself. As it had taken and consumed her parents.

  She heard those winds now, felt the angry slap of sea spray. She saw her own cold granite Ouessant.

  She turned away from the sea, turned away from the icy winds of memory. With the last of her will, she sank into a chair and studied the dark, brooding photograph

  sitting directly above the spot where her equipment had been.

  Her tears were silent and bitter.

  It hurt to watch her slide through the day. When he brought her food, she ate mechanically, her eyes on the window, focused on a place only she could see.

  McKay was smart enough to know that all the usual platitudes would be useless. He'd been pulled off assignments often enough to know the pain of dismissal and how deeply it cut.

  When she needed to talk, he'd be close. Until then, silence was his best gift.

  After he made his hourly check of house and grounds, McKay found his way to the kitchen.

  Archer looked up instantly. “How is she?”

  “Just the same. She eats because I tell her to and says nothing. Then she just stares at a photograph of the sea.”

  Archer's mouth thinned. “Her mother's work, taken someplace in France. A terrible, depressing place. I've never liked the shot.” He floured a mound of dough. “Mr. Brandon just phoned. He'll be arriving within the hour. He sounded furious.”

  “As he should be,” McKay growled.

  Archer passed him a cup of coffee, shaking his head. “Carly's work means everything to her. Any fool can see that. How could they take that away from her?”

  “I'm sure they would say it was nothing personal.” McKay stared out the window at the immaculate grounds. “Strictly business.”

  “Business be damned,” Archer snapped. “She has the best eye and the most skilled hands they'll ever find.”

  “I believe her boss was flying back to say exactly that. Carly won't go unrepresented.”

  Archer punched at the mound of dough meant for feather-light French brioche. “That she won't. Mr.

  Brandon has already set his lawyers to work and they're out for blood. They're pushing for breach of contract at the very least, and they've already slapped a libel suit on the viper-tongued actor who manufactured that story about her asking for bribes.”

  “Good. Let him take some heat. He's the sort who'll cave in as soon as the pressure mounts.” McKay glanced at his watch, then stood up, his coffee untouched. “I'm going down to check the beach.”

  “There's an officer posted.”

  “I prefer to check things myself.” He trusted no one, although McKay didn't mention that.

  As soon as he left the house, he headed for the narrow steps that led through dense forest to the cliffs and wound from there down to the sea. Once he was out of sight of the house, McKay slid a small, secure radio from his pocket.

  “Izzy, come in.”

  Static whispered. “Right here,” Izzy said quietly. “I can see you.”

  “I can't see you, which is perfect. Any news about that silver Audi?”

  “Registered to a couple of tourists from lowa. It was reported stolen from their hotel last night. We're checking them out, but I think the story will hold. Meanwhile, the Barbados police have been notified to stop the car if it's seen.” Izzy cleared his throat. “How is Carly holding up?”

  “Not well. It's hard not to take a thing like this personally. Attached to her career as she is, being fired is devastating. I hope her boss can turn things around.”

  Izzy hissed. “Damn!”

  “What's wrong?” McKay tensed, scanning the foliage.

  “Stand down, McKay, just some badly placed thorns.” Leaves rustled. “According to the business plan Comrade Vronski filed in Santa Marina, he had half a million in a local account. As soon as the contracts are signed, he's to wire in five million more.”

  “What's the catch?”

  “He insists on having his own security force at the finished port facility. It's a nonnegotiable point in all his ventures worldwide.”

  “I can't see Brandon accepting those terms. Santa Marina is remarkably stable, and their crime rate is the lowest in the Caribbean.”

  “That could be changing. There have been a dozen armed robberies in the last week.”

  “Interesting they should happen right now.”

  “Isn't it? Vronski gets a nice bargaining chip in negotiating for his own security force. With crime on the rise…”

  “Very neat. Vronski gets exactly what he wants, yet keeps his reputation clean. Very neat indeed. Brandon might need more help than he realizes,” McKay said thoughtfully. “Keep me posted, Izzy. Right now I'm heading down to check the beach. Brandon is expected here within the hour, and I want to make a final sweep before that. Something tells me we'd better stay on our toes.”

  The sun was a ball of crimson against the horizon when Nigel Brandon strode up the steps to Paradise Cay.

  McKay was glad to see two men escorting him. From their cool, alert posture he made them for plainclothes police.

  “How is she?” Brandon demanded.

  McKay shook his head. “She's trying, but it doesn't help. She wanders, then sits and stares out the window as if she isn't really here.”

  Brandon cursed his eyes icy. “I couldn't get away any sooner. Business,” he said waving one hand irritably. “I need to speak with you after I've seen Carly.”

  “I'll be here.”

  Brandon looked out at Carly, sitting in a lounge chair near the pool. “She hasn't moved since I arrived.”

  “She hasn't moved for almost an hour,” McKay said tightly. “And she's not asleep, because I checked her a few minutes ago.”

  “Hell.” Beneath his expensive tweed jacket, Brandon's shoulders were set in a stiff line. “Someone is going to pay for this, believe me.”

  McKay watched him stalk outside, then halt at the steps, forcing a smile onto his patrician face.

  Carly noticed none of it, staring at the waterfall artfully constructed of natural stones at one end of the swimming pool. She looked up as Brandon sat beside her, stroking her hair. McKay felt a sharp pressure when she buried her face against Brandon's chest.

  Rejection was always raw, always personal, no matter how hard you tried to keep things objective. McKay suspected that for Carly, because of her mother's success, be
ing pulled from the shoot was especially painful.

  He rubbed a knot at his neck, forcing his eyes away from the emotional scene on the patio.

  Keep it loose, McKay. Keep it focused.

  Most of all, keep it from turning personal, even though it's getting harder by the second.

  “She didn't like it, but I'm going for blood.” Brandon's face was shuttered as he rejoined McKay in the library. “I've got a team of lawyers who have instituted libel suits against both the agency and that fractious little actor. I won't allow them to harm Carly's career this way.” He pulled at the cuffs of his suit jacket. “If she's not back on assignment by the close of business tomorrow, they'll all face hefty damages and a well-focused media campaign of my own, which is something I know exactly how to orchestrate—and the nastier the better.” He took a last look out the window at Carly, then turned to McKay. “Meanwhile, there's something you should know. You recall that I mentioned the joint venture port project I am considering.”

  “With a man called Nikolai Vronski.”

  Brandon nodded. “I heard from him a few hours ago. He's concerned about the recent robberies we've had in Santa Marina, so he's lowering his investment commitment from five million to two. In addition, he's pushing hard for a private security force at the finished port, something we would never consider under normal circumstances.”

  “But now circumstances have changed.” McKay crossed his arms, smiling thinly. “Paradise just got a little less perfect.”

  “Something like that. There might be a connection, so I thought you should know.”

  “Glad for the tip. I presume you're digging deeper?”

  “I'll have every detail of the man's background before the negotiations resume,” Brandon said flatly. “I don't like being manipulated or played for a fool.” He rose with a sigh. “Since I can't do anything more here, I'm returning to Bridgetown. Daphne and I are staying in a friend's town house there for the moment.”

  “Well guarded I hope.”

  “You may be certain of that. Crime seems to be becoming a problem everywhere.”

  “Then round up the usual suspects,” McKay suggested recalling the worldly police chief in Casablanca. “If your normal criminal elements aren't involved they might know who is.”

  Brandon's brow rose. “I'll relay the suggestion to Inspector St. John. He asked me to tell you that he is available if and when you need him.” He slanted a last, anxious look at Carly. “Take care of her for me. Keep her safe.” He met McKay's look frankly. “In whatever way will help her most.”

  McKay caught the meaning and the unvoiced request. Both would push him where he couldn't afford to go.

  He stood up, rigid and controlled. “Personal isn't an option, sir. This is an official mission. I am under orders.”

  Brandon studied him from the doorway. “You're also a

  man. You've got a fine record, Commander McKay. Especially that last mission you led in Columbia.”

  McKay stiffened, aware of how many strings Brandon had pulled to access that bit of information, which was as black an op as they came.

  “No denials?”

  McKay shrugged. “Clearly, they would be useless. My compliments. You're very well connected, sir.”

  “Not well enough, it appears.” A beeper chimed softly in Brandon's pocket. “Business again. Do you know what a famous Chinese philosopher once said? Ruling a country is like frying very small fish. Delicacy. Speed. Preparation. All are key.”

  McKay cocked one hip against the mahogany desk. “Another Chinese genius said to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  Brandon flashed a brief smile. “I will be sure to keep both points in mind, commander.”

  McKay couldn't sleep.

  Beyond his open window the sea crashed through air rich with jasmine and moonlight.

  He gave up on the bed and moved to a sofa near the open door where a balcony wrapped around the elegant second floor. Carly's lights had gone out two hours ago, but every creak had him lurching to his feet to see if she was awake.

  She hadn't moved once.

  McKay crossed his arms behind his head and watched shadows flirt with moonlight on the floor.

  Take care of her, Brandon had said. In whatever way will help her most.

  McKay felt his body clench. The man was a bloody fool to ask for something so intimate.

  And he was a bloody fool to consider it.

  The creak of wood brought him to the door in a rush. He froze at the sight of Carly beside the balcony her body rigid, gown traced by cold moonlight. If she was crying, she was doing it in utter silence.

  Wind sent the gauze curtains dancing as McKay moved through the darkness, searching for words to soothe her pain.

  She turned her head her face a pale oval in the moonlight. “I could ask you to leave.”

  “You could ask.”

  She drew a harsh breath. “I'm okay with this, McKay.” She gripped the white rail of the balcony. “I have to be.”

  “No one's judging you here, Carly.”

  “I am.”

  He leaned back, moonlight falling over his shoulders. “Want to talk?”

  “No.”

  He resisted the urge to skim her cheek. “Want to curse and throw something? I'll be happy to find a vase that will shatter deafeningly.”

  She didn't laugh the way he had hoped. “No, thanks.” Her fingers moved restlessly, tracing invisible patterns against the railing.

  “Why not? You're tough and resilient and you love what you do. You should be furious.”

  “Go away. Please, go away.” A low whisper, it clutched at his heart.

  “You can't get rid of me that easily.” McKay stepped closer, itching to pull her against his chest. “They took your camera, so what? Screw them,” he added savagely.

  Carly stared out at the lawns, silver where they ran to the dark forest. She didn't curse or snap back an angry answer. Her whole body shook.

  “Get angry, Carly. That's what you need now.”

  He saw the misery in her eyes, pushed deep but impossible to hide. “I can't. I'm too frightened.” Her tears slid free, glinting on her face in the moonlight. “What if Mel fails? What if they find someone else, someone who takes my ideas but makes them sharper, then produces faster? I'll be used up, finished.” She pressed a hand over her stomach. “That's how I feel already. As if I'm nothing.”

  “You need to eat.”

  “I can't.”

  McKay cursed and slid an arm around her trembling shoulders. “It hurts to be slandered and betrayed.”

  She swiped at her cheeks. “It shouldn't. I'm not a girl

  anymore. It's not life-and-death. Dear God, none of this should make me think of—” Her body shook harder.

  “To think of your mother,” he finished. “To a grieving girl, death would be the greatest betrayal.”

  Carly straightened. “You see a lot, McKay.”

  “Enough to know how you're hurting,” he said quietly. Enough to recognize how dangerously vulnerable her pain made her right now. “Take a few punches if that will make you feel better. Go on, I've got thick skin.”

  She shook her head tiredly. “I'd only feel guilty. None of this is your fault. I should have handled Griffin better. I should have seen what was coming—”

  He held her face, cradling her wet cheeks. “No one could have seen this coming.”

  “I shouldn't care so much.” She made a fist and slammed it against the railing. “I don't want to care.”

  He stroked a damp curl from her cheek. “It's not a crime, Carly. Caring is who you are.”

  She gave a half-laugh, her eyes huge in the moonlit pallor of her face. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “No,” he said hoarsely. “What you need is this.”

  The brush of his mouth was meant to soothe, but McKay felt heat, only heat. Where her fingers stole onto his shoulders, where her chest pressed against his, he felt only the reckless flash of desire.
>
  It felt good to imagine how she would taste.

  It felt even better to find out.

  His lips were not quite gentle as they settled over hers, wanting and taking. Muscle by muscle, she relaxed her mouth opening to his. With a groan he pulled her closer, sliding his hands down that sleek, elegant body to cup her hips through the thin barrier of lace while desire twisted sinking to his groin.

  Greedy, he found the shoulder of her gown.

  Blind he shoved it aside, filling his hands with the glorious weight of her breasts.

  “What are we doing?” she whispered.

  “Hell if I know. Just don't ask me to stop.” He felt her shudder.

  “I don't want you to stop.”

  The sweet thrust of her nipples undid him. He pulled down the lace, tormenting the dark crests with his fingers, then with his mouth.

  Wanting more, he brought his hand to the shadowed softness between her legs. She whimpered, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

  In a second more he would have shredded the lace, backed her against the wall in the moonlight, and pushed inside her, deeper and deeper…

  “God.”

  He took a rigid step back, his breath harsh. Her nightgown lay open, her body a mute seduction.

  “No.” His throat was dry. “Not like this.”

  She swallowed. “Like what?”

  “This—or any other way.”

  She watched him rake a hand through his hair as he fought to clear his brain. “I didn't ask you to stop.”

  “You shouldn't have to.”

  She didn't blink, didn't move.

  “Think it through, Carly. Incendiary sex is the last thing you need now.”

  “Incendiary sounds good to me.”

  Because he couldn't help himself, he traced the curve of her lips. “Now, yes. But not tomorrow, not in a month, when you've had time to think this through.” Irritated, he pulled her gown up and smoothed the lace over her cool skin, watching his fingers tremble. “Trust me, I'm right.”

  She took a raw breath. “Right doesn't matter. I like touching you.” She stared up at him. “With you I won't regret letting go or feeling you let go. If that's what you mean by incendiary sex, I want that, too.” She stood tensely as he didn't move. “You're not making this easy for me.”