Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  “Archer's cooking for an army, I see.” Daphne toyed with her cup. “He does that when he's worried.”

  McKay didn't answer, aware they had entered dangerous waters. “How about some fresh dill bread?” he asked casually. “Archer just took it out of the oven a few minutes ago.”

  “No, thanks. With this skirt I can't even look at food.” Her eyes hardened. “Besides, I didn't come to eat. Has there been any news from New York?”

  McKay shook his head.

  “Idiots. Is she throwing things yet?”

  “She's working up to it.” McKay smiled faintly. “If I

  keep provoking her, you might see a vase or two go flying.”

  “Good. An explosion would be therapeutic.” Daphne's gaze flickered around the kitchen, then back to McKay. “You look jumpy.”

  “Trying times.”

  “True enough.” Daphne sipped her coffee. “My father was on the phone until the wee hours. He's made sure his lawyers sink their teeth deep on this one. That no-talent weasel of an actor has finally issued a statement that his earlier charges were made in haste and might possibly have been misconstrued.”

  “Possibly?”

  “Negotiation is all,” Daphne said cynically. “He's holding out for extra compensation. He also wants guaranteed placement for two more jobs.”

  “Pushy bastard.”

  Daphne smiled. “But a nervous one. If his attack backfires, he'll be blacklisted in New York and everywhere else that counts.”

  McKay watched a bird fly low over the rose garden and thought about a new angle. Was Griffin Kelly capable of organizing the attack at the waterfall out of revenge?

  No, McKay decided. From what he'd seen, the planning was beyond a lightweight like Kelly.

  “Keep pounding him. He'll fold under pressure.”

  “Meanwhile Carly is left to dangle in the wind.” Daphne pushed away her coffee. “It makes me livid.”

  McKay knew exactly how she felt.

  Daphne stared down at her locked fingers. “Have you told Carly the truth yet?”

  McKay wondered what secrets she had managed to work out of her father. “You mean that I'm really Dennis Rodman with a lot of expensive surgery?”

  “You'd look good with an earring.”

  “I'll pass on that—and the body tattoos.”

  “She should know why you're here.”

  “She already knows. I'm here to—”

  “The truth,” Daphne said tightly. “Not the slick story.”

  “Tell me the truth about what?” Carly stood in the doorway her face soft from sleep. She looked anxious and vulnerable as she stared from one to the other. “Daphne, what did you mean?”

  “Hell.” Daphne sighed. “I'm worried about both of you. Apparently I'm better at worrying than I am at keeping my mouth shut. Maybe it's my imagination, but I'd say you two were involved. Or about to be involved.” She waved a hand as McKay began a denial. “No, don't bother. It's not my business anyway. Just one piece of advice: Don't blow it. If there's anything I do know, it's that life's too short to be proud—or stupid.” She moved past Carly and frowned. “Your buttons are crooked. Your scarf also happens to be twisted.” She bent to pick something off the floor near Carly's foot. “Well, well, isn't this interesting?”

  Carly swept the foil square from her fingers. “It's not what you think.”

  “I'd say it's exactly what I think.”

  Stiffly, Carly rebuttoned her dress. “Don't change the subject. Tell me what you meant about McKay telling me the truth.”

  Daphne crossed her arms. “Ask him. I've got to discuss a recipe with Archer. My father has some Japanese investors visiting tomorrow and I'm going to make them swoon over the conch fritters. After that, maybe some mango ice cream.” She sauntered past Carly, headed toward the patio. “You two have a nice chat.”

  Carly rounded on McKay. “Tell me.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “I haven't got a clue what she meant.” He reached for the foil packet. “Hand it over. You won't be needing it.”

  Carly's eyes glittered. “Maybe I'll just head into Bridgetown and drown my sorrows.” She smiled icily. “So to speak.”

  “Think again.” He'd kill the first man who looked at her, much less touched her.

  Carly straightened her shoulders. “News flash from the Vatican: Saint Carly doesn't live here anymore.”

  “Nigel Brandon asked me to keep an eye on you. He thinks I can keep you from doing something reckless.”

  “Aren't you two chums all of a sudden. And by all means, let's not be reckless.” Carly's voice rose angrily. “Let's just troop along nicely like good little campers.”

  Standing in the doorway, Archer looked thoughtfully from one to the other. “Your guests have arrived Miss Carly.”

  “Guests? What guests?”

  “Five members of your crew. Inspector St. John escorted them up from the main road.” Archer glanced at McKay, who nodded.

  “She'll be right out.”

  “She will?” Her face flushed with anger. “Camp just let out, McKay. You can stop trying to regiment my life.” She shoved away his hand and headed for the foyer, her face mutinous.

  “An old island expression comes to mind right now,” Archer murmured.

  “I don't want to hear it.”

  “I'd be glad to tell you,” Archer continued mildly. “I believe it translates as ‘some days suck.’ ”

  “This is definitely one of them.” McKay followed the laughter to the sunny porch above the rose garden, where Carly was surrounded by her crew. She studiously avoided him, all her attention focused on a painfully thin young man whose buzz-cut purple hair went very nicely with his purple earring.

  “I put in my exposure meter with memory averaging and digital readouts. It does everything but takes the shot for you.” His earring spun as he opened a padded aluminum case. “Here it is.”

  Recognizing the love-stricken expression in the

  staffer's eyes as he stared at Carly, McKay suppressed a twinge of sympathy.

  “And here's my best tripod. One-touch opening and a top-of-the-line gear head. Just feel the movement on this pan wheel, smooth as butter. You'll grab some amazing shots with it.”

  Carly stared as a woman in ragged shorts and heavy hiking boots nudged the lighting tech aside and pulled something else out of the box. “Here are some light flags and a c-stand, my three favorite spots, and an amazing 3-D concave reflector. The translucent white gives you amazing softness along with clarity. The gaffer tape goes too.”

  “I can't take these. You know that.” Carly took a ragged breath. “This is your personal equipment.” Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked from one face to the next.

  “Take it and put it to use.” Expertly, Carly's lighting tech set up the camera tripod, then angled two light stands on either side of it. “Then send Mel some killer footage that will get us back here to finish the job.”

  “I can't tell you how much this means to me.” Carly traced the tripod lovingly. “But I don't have a camera.”

  “Hank knew you'd say that.” Daphne glanced pointedly at a box behind Carly's chair. “That's why he left you his new camcorder.”

  The lighting tech gave a low whistle. “That baby has 10x power zoom, a time-base corrector, and single-frame recording. Hank must like you big time—he won't even let me near it.”

  “I don't know what to say.” Carly smiled shakily. “Thank you all so much, but I couldn't possibly borrow all this. It's out of the question.”

  “Hank expected you to say that, too.” Daphne crossed her arms. “He said to tell you to stop making lame excuses and get back to work. He wants footage to look at tomorrow, when he finishes bashing heads in New York.”

  She squeezed Carly's shoulder. “If people want to help you, let them.”

  McKay moved back into the shadows as Carly brushed at the tears streaming down her face. She had the loyalty of her crew, and McKay suspected she'd worked hard to earn
it. He glanced across the porch as Inspector St. John climbed the steps from the garden and joined him.

  “They're good friends. I'm glad they stood by her.” St. John crossed his arms, studying McKay. “I've got some information for you. The men we're holding in custody know nothing. The attack at the waterfall was arranged entirely by phone, and the payment was handled anonymously, left inside a rental box at the airport. Someone was extremely careful.”

  “Have your people tracked down that silver Audi?”

  “We found it two hours ago, abandoned near the airport.”

  “So they're smart as well as cautious.” McKay didn't like the combination. “What about the Russian?”

  “Vronski has tabled his negotiations. He told the governor he needed time to determine if Santa Marina was the best location for his investment.” St. John frowned. “Under the circumstances.”

  “Shrewd move.” McKay watched one of the estate security officers move unobtrusively through the trees at the far end of the garden. “Either that or it's a damned good bluff. Did Vronski mention the attack on Governor Brandon's family?”

  St. John shook his head.

  That could be equally shrewd, McKay decided. All news of the attack had been kept out of the local papers. If Vronski was involved he'd hardly trumpet his knowledge of the event. “How about that crime wave you're battling on Santa Marina?”

  “Quiet, for the moment.”

  McKay wasn't overly relieved by the news. He had a hunch there would be more pressure and more attacks.

  No one went to so much trouble without a substantial goal.

  Laughter drifted through the courtyard. “Keep Daphne close,” McKay said tightly. “It's not over.”

  St. John stiffened. “Why so certain?”

  Sheer, gnawing instinct. The edgy feeling at the back of the neck that came from too many supposedly safe ops that went south from bad intel.

  McKay shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

  “We could use your help, McKay. We're getting nowhere, and the governor is terrified that next time someone will break through security and harm his family or staff.”

  McKay didn't envy the governor. Being a target was one thing. Knowing that the people you loved were targets had to be the worst kind of torture.

  “He doesn't need to worry about Carly.” McKay ran his eyes over the rolling lawns and the dense woods beyond. “No one's getting in or out while I'm here. Even if they do, Carly will be right beside me.”

  St. John nodded, then motioned to his driver. “I'll be driving the crew members back to Bridgetown shortly. You've got enough on your hands without any extra distractions here.” He smiled as Daphne swirled in a dramatic pose for Carly's new camera. “Miss Daphne will go with me. I've been trying to convince the governor to return to Santa Marina with her and his staff, but he won't leave while Miss Carly is here recovering. Nor will he give the impression that he's running scared.”

  “Running might be safer.” But McKay sensed that whether the governor was on Barbados or another island, the threats would continue. There could be no letting down his guard.

  “Be careful.” St. John watched Daphne waltzing with Archer under a towering banyan tree while the crew fought laughter. “You're the final line of defense here.”

  McKay glanced across the road at the tree where Izzy was hunkered down, virtually invisible. “Count on it.”

  An hour later Daphne and the crew had left. McKay was nursing a cup of Archer's potent tea on a lounge chair near the man-made waterfall at the end of the pool. He was trying hard not to notice Carly but his gaze kept snapping back like a pulled rubber band.

  She was perched on the edge of the free-form pool, looking as if she were balanced on thin air with the Caribbean stretching away behind her. It was only an illusion, McKay knew, an image created by careful placement of the pool on a steep slope. The knowledge didn't keep him from itching to tug her out of danger.

  Then there was the problem of her suit, two scraps of red spandex that had him itching in other, more primitive ways.

  He managed to keep his expression cool and casual as he crossed the flagstone terrace. “I thought you'd still be trying out your new equipment.”

  Carly lifted her hand shading her eyes against the sun. “I was tempted.”

  McKay dropped into a deck chair beside her. “Not blocked—or whatever you artists call it?”

  “Not blocked. I meant what I said yesterday. I'm tired of framing the shots while life passes me by. I'm taking the rest of the day off.”

  “In spite of that lovely camera, just waiting for you?”

  “That's right. I'm going to sit back, relax, and soak up some lovely sunlight.”

  “In that suit, you'll soak up a lot of sun.”

  “If you must know, I couldn't struggle into my one-piece suit without straining few stitches.”

  McKay frowned. “Let me have a look.”

  “I'll be fine, McKay. Just stop me if I feel compelled to attempt the thousand-meter freestyle. Gaffer's tape was

  perfect to cover my bandage.” She pointed at her side. “It's completely waterproof.” She took a deep breath, dangling her feet in the crystal water. “It's also incredibly ugly, but since you've made it clear that you're not interested in my body, that hardly matters, does it?”

  It would take more than a strip of gray tape to make her ugly. Especially in that siren-red suit she was almost wearing. But McKay was steering clear of that particular subject.

  Concerned, he studied her fair skin. “Shouldn't you put on sunscreen?”

  “Already done.” Her lips quirked. “Don't tell me you're disappointed.”

  He was. Nothing would have felt better than running his hands over her smooth stomach and forever legs, if only to see her squirm the way he was squirming. “A little,” he said mildly.

  She propped one hand on the flagstones. “Why don't you change? The water's glorious.”

  He stood and stretched, at the same time scanning the hillside. “I'll pass for now.” He was watching a boat steam beyond the cove when he heard Carly's low laugh, just before her heads hooked around his ankles. “I think it's time you got wet, McKay. That cool, competent way you study everything around you makes me nervous.” Smiling, she tightened her grip.

  McKay thought of the pistol holstered on his calf. “I don't want to swim.”

  “But I absolutely insist.” Still smiling, she pushed off the edge of the pool, falling backward. McKay struggled to keep his balance, then plunged in after her. He twisted in midair to avoid falling on top of her, but grazed her shoulder, dunking her soundly.

  Even at that she was laughing when he broke the surface, her eyes full of mischief. “You're all wet, McKay.”

  In retaliation, he shoved her underwater, then smiled when she came up sputtering. “Looks like both of us are.”

  “At least I'm dressed for it.” She shot water at his face, then dived for safety, surfacing at the far end of the pool.

  She swam like a mermaid he thought, all flashing limbs and smooth power. He remembered she'd spent every summer on Santa Marina, which had given her plenty of opportunity to practice.

  He stroked to the edge of the pool, kicked out of his shoes and socks, then wedged his gun out of sight inside one shoe. After piling the clothes on the terrace, he circled slowly, tracking her across the deep end.

  She avoided him, piking down and slipping through his fingers like liquid silver. For a moment he could only stare, struck by her restless energy as she shot past him and surfaced in an arc of bubbles.

  “You're losing your touch, McKay.”

  “I'm losing more than my touch,” he muttered, stripping off his shirt and tossing it with the rest of his discarded clothes.

  Carly paddled sideways, careful to stay well out of reach. “If I'd known there would be a floor show, I'd have pushed you in sooner.”

  McKay slid underwater. As he'd expected she followed and he caught her ankle, pulling her farther
down and capturing her face. Slowly he breathed against her parted lips while bubbles shimmered and danced around them.

  He couldn't have said where the magic began or ended, whether in the touch of her lips or the restless brush of her body against his. Sunlight poured through the water, dusting her cheeks and hair, and there was a dazed look in her eyes as she pulled free and kicked to the surface, gasping for air.

  McKay followed unhurriedly, well trained to stretch out one breath for minutes.

  “Where did you learn to hold your breath that way?” Carly demanded.

  “Taipei. Singapore. Fiji.” He watched a frown line her forehead. “On my first freighter,” he added.

  “You're lying. I'm comfortable in the water, but you move as if water's your real home. Don't insult me with some lame story about being a champion surfer or I might have to drown you.” Her frown deepened. “Except I couldn't drown you. I couldn't get away from you, either, if you were really trying to catch me.” She stroked backward. “You're Navy, aren't you? One of those special forces people.”

  “Carly—”

  “It was all arranged, wasn't it? All of it, right from your arrival aboard the cruise ship. That's what Daphne meant.” She shook her head, not waiting for an answer. “When were you going to let me in on your little secret?”

  McKay lunged for her wrist, but she ducked sharply, kicking away from him. “Carly, stop.”

  “I trusted you, dammit.”

  He caught her at the ladder, his hands gripping her shoulders. “You can still trust me. Don't turn away. I'm not finished.”

  “Yes, you are.” Her eyes snapped in fury. “It had to be Uncle Nigel's idea. I'll work the truth out of him. Until then, I have nothing to say to you.” She stared pointedly at his hands. “Or is coercion part of your assignment, too?”

  McKay let his hands drop. Considering that Brandon had maneuvered McKay into this fiasco of a mission, it was only right that Brandon choose how much to explain. Carly had a right to know the whole picture since she was one of the probable targets.

  “What, no protests? No soulful assurances that I'm wrong?”

  “You're not in the mood to believe anything I say.”