Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  Their bodies bumped gently, rocked by the water, and Carly flinched. “Get out of my way.”

  McKay saw the pain in her eyes, glinting beneath the fury. She had trusted him, confided in him, and in return

  he had brought her more betrayal. The knowledge left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, though his orders had been crystal clear.

  She glared at him, clinging to the ladder. “Don't bother with excuses, McKay. More lies are the last thing I need.”

  Water flying, she stormed up the ladder and was gone.

  Carly placed three tense calls to Nigel Brandon through the afternoon, only to learn that he was off island in back-to-back meetings. To her frustration, Daphne was also unavailable, courting potential sponsors for her foundation. On a hunch, Carly tried Inspector St. John, only to find that he was accompanying Daphne.

  Carly sensed there was danger growing, and it infuriated her that no one respected her intelligence enough to discuss it with her openly and honestly. As soon as she snagged Daphne or Nigel, she meant to remedy that situation.

  She spent the rest of her day in a blur of sketches, location planning, and general research on beach settings for future shoots. Narrowing the list of possible locations would help her plan visual themes.

  Assuming that the whole project hadn't already been turned over to another creative team by then.

  She drove the thought from her mind, working right through the afternoon, much to Archer's unhappiness. She managed to avoid McKay for a total of nearly four hours, though she heard his voice often enough to know he was never far away. In the late afternoon, Nigel Brandon's secretary phoned with his apologies, saying that he was still detained in meetings off island and would contact her as soon as he returned.

  At sunset Archer knocked on her door and cast a disapproving eye over her open books, folded maps, and scattered paperwork. “Dinner will be served on the terrace in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thank you, Archer, but I'll just have some fruit here in my room.”

  “That you will not do. I will not have Mr. Brandon accusing me of negligence in my duties.”

  “But—”

  “Seven-fifteen,” the majordomo said imperiously. “Since your Mr. McKay has been equally recalcitrant, he was given the same ultimatum.”

  Carly wanted to snap that McKay wasn't her anything, but Archer had already gone back to the kitchen. Fuming, she closed her books and rummaged in her bags for well-worn blue jeans and an old tank top, refusing to primp before dinner. She ran a comb quickly through her hair, then strode outside, not bothering with shoes. By the time she reached the terrace, her nerves were raw and she was primed for a fight.

  She came to an abrupt halt when she saw McKay's lean silhouette on the terrace, where he paced with equal aggravation. Tonight he wore nothing but black, his only ornament a narrow silver buckle at his belt.

  Carly took a sharp breath and tried not to like what she saw. Even now she found it hard to resist the power of the man prowling at the edge of the candlelight. With a sigh, she straightened her shoulders and sauntered with cool arrogance over the flagstones.

  The effect was spoiled when she slammed her bare foot against a wrought-iron candelabrum, staggered then caught her heel with a shrill yelp.

  He was at her side in an instant. “Where does it hurt? Your stitches? Your leg?”

  “My foot,” she rasped. “Just give me a minute here.”

  He held her steady while he checked her foot. “No blood. No cuts. What about your stitches?” he demanded. “Any problems there?”

  Carly could only shake her head, intensely aware of his body against hers—though it was the last thing she wanted to think about.

  The wind murmured though the trees, cool against her flushed cheeks. McKay cleared his throat, then stepped away, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “It doesn't look serious.”

  He started to ask her a question but stopped when Archer arrived with a tray. Five magnificent courses followed, each served with Archer's impeccable style and Paradise Cay's finest silver, while the tension stretched out between them.

  They said barely five words to each other for the rest of the evening.

  “Everything all right?”

  Carly looked up from a big, sweeping romance set in fifteenth-century Scotland. Her eyes narrowed on McKay, who wore a loose black nylon jacket. His collar was turned up and he looked as if he'd just come from a run on the beach.

  “See for yourself,” Carly said coolly. To her surprise, he did just that, checking the windows and bathroom. After that he closed and locked the French doors to her veranda.

  She sat up straighter. “I like them open.”

  “You'll sleep better with them closed.” Impassive, he held out a pill and a glass of water. “You're due for one of these. It will help you sleep.”

  “I'll sleep just fine, assuming you let me get back to my book.” She spoke curtly, unnerved by the thought that he was keeping track of her medication schedule.

  His brow rose. “No more pain?”

  “Nothing beyond an occasional tug. Dr. Harris must have magic hands.”

  After a moment, he nodded. “In that case, sleep well. If you need me, I'll be next door.”

  He'd be the last one she went to for help, Carly swore, attacking her pillow and fighting with her blankets. For two more hours she struggled to find the narrow corridor leading into sleep, only to throw off her quilt in frustration and pad to the window. Stars blazed in the immense velvet sky and the lights of fishing boats gleamed far out at sea.

  Around her the house creaked softly.

  Rubbing the small of her back, Carly went in search of a glass of milk, hoping the old remedy might actually work. Across the hall, she saw dim light filtering from the study. McKay's long body was sprawled in an armchair, a silver attaché case open on his right and a file folder spread out to his left. What appeared to be a faxed photograph lay on top of the folder.

  Carly crept closer and studied the man in the fax, shocked that he seemed familiar. She sank to one knee for a better look, trying to remember where she had seen those deep-set eyes. Aboard the ship.

  Suddenly she was caught from behind slammed forward and pinned to the floor as powerful hands slashed out, trapping her wrists. A muscled forearm pressed at her throat, and she went absolutely still.

  In the darkness, McKay's face was drawn and fierce above her. Carly waited frozen by the sight of his eyes, cold and stony.

  A killer's eyes.

  “S-stop,” she rasped her throat burning under his forearm.

  He stared, unblinking, his breath harsh and labored.

  Then, as fast he had trapped her, he rolled away. “What the hell were you doing in here?”

  Carly gasped for breath, wincing when she tried to speak.

  “Don't talk.” He pulled her against his chest and massaged her throat. “Give it some time.”

  She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. One of her questions had just been answered. Now she knew exactly what he was.

  He was a trained killer who moved with icy will and lethal speed to dispatch his target. She had nearly been that target, thanks to her innocent blunder.

  The realization should have left her frightened, but she felt only fury as she shoved away his hands.

  “Stop.”

  “Stop, hell. I don't like your greeting style, McKay. A peck on the cheek generally works better than strangulation.”

  He reached out, but she slammed at his arm in blind panic.

  “Fine. I won't touch you.” He raised both hands, palms up. “Just relax.”

  She couldn't. The experience left her shuddering, unable to forget the marks of his fingers on her neck.

  “I'm sorry I frightened you.”

  “Sorry, hell. It's what you do, what you are. You hurt things.” She bit back a whimper of pain as she rose. “You kill people.”

  She stood unsteadily, waiting for him to deny it, praying he would say the words to prove
she was wrong.

  His silence came like a physical blow.

  “Fine. End of scene. Wrap cameras.” She turned clumsily, unable to think.

  “We need to talk, Carly.” His voice was low and strained.

  “I prefer to talk with people who aren't trying to strangle me.” She traced her throat unconsciously and shivered.

  The gesture made him scowl, moving closer.

  “Don't.” Her voice shook. “I've got to think.”

  “Thinking won't help.”

  Wiping her cheeks, she shouldered past him, crossed

  the hall to her bedroom, then turned. “You're with the government, aren't you? Uncle Nigel arranged all this, didn't he?”

  “I want to talk about us, not about Brandon.”

  “I saw that fax beside your feet. I recognized one of the faces.”

  McKay went still. “Which one?”

  “The man with the deep-set eyes and the bad toupee. Who is he?”

  “Where?” McKay asked tensely. “Try to remember exactly where you saw him.”

  She crossed her arms. “Probably on the dock in Bridgetown the day we arrived. On the ship, too, come to think of it. He was there by the pool the day I met you. Was that part of the plan? Did you play hard to get as part of the job?”

  His shoulders rigid he followed her across her room. “Stop twisting this.”

  She backed away. “Don't come near me.”

  “I won't leave. Not like this,” he said harshly.

  She took another unsteady step, then hit the bed and toppled back in midsentence, feeling a dull ache at her healing wound.

  The ache in her heart cut far deeper.

  He stared down at her, a slash of shadow at the edge of the bed. “Dammit, Carly, I need you to trust me.”

  “I can't. It's too late for that.”

  There was hunger in his eyes, driving out his icy detachment. She saw the pulse hammering at his throat.

  “I would never harm you. I care too much, even though caring was never part of the plan.” His hand opened on her lace gown. “I could prove it now.” The words were fierce. “I could make you see.” He cursed savagely, then took a step away from her. “I want you, Carly. That will never be a lie.”

  “If so, it's the only thing you've said to me that's true.” She took a shuddering breath. “Go away. I'm afraid of the shadows in your eyes and the dead expression on your

  face. I'm afraid of how alert and careful you are. Come back when you can tell me the truth.”

  “You're making this harder than it has to be, dammit.” Her hand twisted against her chest. “Am I? Funny, I could have sworn I was saving us both from making a huge mistake.”

  An hour before dawn, McKay glared at his face in the bathroom mirror. Carly hadn't slept well and neither had he.

  Hardly surprising in her case since he'd nearly decked her, frightening her half to death. She'd put two and two together beautifully after that.

  Answering her questions was Brandon's problem, but regaining her trust was his. Meanwhile, this damnable attraction he felt was going to be pushed deep and forgotten. Neither of them could afford that kind of complication now.

  Beyond her door, he heard a whimper and the creak of the bed. He found her twisting, half pinioned by tangled sheets, her face pale with fear.

  She was dreaming, he realized. Probably reliving the attack at the waterfall. Or maybe she was remembering the moment when she'd caught him by surprise.

  Damn the mission, he thought grimly, sliding his hand gently over her hair.

  She didn't wake and he stayed beside her until the shuddering stopped. By the time her breathing quieted and her hands stopped twisting on the quilt, his body was taut, knotted with need.

  “Hell,” he said as she rolled over and pulled him down, draping herself across him, boneless and utterly

  vulnerable in sleep. Her hand nestled in the hair at his chest and her mouth settled at his cheek.

  In sleep, she trusted him. Awake, she would argue to her last angry breath, but asleep she held nothing back.

  The thought amazed him.

  He stayed where he was, careful not to wake her despite the need he was coming to recognize as an old friend. Only when the sun cleared the trees, signaling time for a security check with Archer, did he ease out of her bed, heading for a shower.

  A very cold shower, he decided.

  Carly awoke in a sprawl of tangled sheets. She sat up and squinted at the beamed ceiling, trying to remember where she was.

  Too much sunlight. Not New York.

  Paradise Cay.

  She fell back with a pained sigh, remembering the attack and her move here to the estate.

  Last night.

  She dragged her pillow over her head, shivering at the memory of McKay's hair-trigger response when she'd come upon him sleeping in the study. In seconds she'd been pinned beneath him. In a few seconds more she could have been dead. She closed her eyes, trying to erase the memories.

  Could she trust him? Could she be certain he would stop himself the next time she came upon him unaware?

  There were no answers in the quiet room.

  Only the cold fear remained as she pushed to her feet. She needed a shower, then food. After that, she intended to bury herself in work. And if she hadn't heard from Uncle Nigel by noon, she would go to Bridgetown and track him down personally.

  When Carly finished her shower, McKay and Archer were on the terrace talking with two men in flowered

  shirts. She tossed on a jacket and jeans and headed for the kitchen, relieved to avoid McKay. In her pocket, she had a sketch book and a light meter so she could try some test shots outside after she ate.

  Rummaging through the refrigerator, she found fresh fruit and juice, along with Archer's special peanut soup, which she ladled into a copper pot. The air was tinged with spices by the time she pulled the pot from the stove, broke off part of a fresh baguette, and went in search of butter.

  No luck on any of the counters. No luck in the refrigerator.

  The curtains moved at the open window, casting patterns on the long granite counters as Carly pulled open the door of the huge commercial freezer. She peered through a veil of cold air and waved her hands, looking for the butter canister. Seeing nothing but swirling air, she stepped in farther and was rewarded by the sight of three dairy containers next to a selection of pricy European sorbets.

  Patrick Brandon definitely lived well, she thought, scanning a row of elaborate frozen pastries. He wouldn't miss one killer chocolate desert amid all this bounty.

  Grinning, she scooped up a carton of butter along with an extravagant Italian chocolate truffle cake. After all, there was nothing like chocolate to soothe a wounded heart.

  Hearing a sound behind her, she spun guiltily, purloined chocolate in hand. “Archer, is that you?”

  The door was closing.

  “McKay? Stop.”

  The door just kept moving.

  Carly sprang forward, shoving her shoulder against the cold metal, but she was too late. The silver handle snapped shut with a hiss as she banged on the door, calling loudly and wrenching the handle up and down. Nothing budged. Stuck tight. Was the door locked from the outside?

  She shivered, kicking at the refrigerator wall and calling hoarsely while icy air cut at her dry throat. As she rammed the door with her shoulder, the cold grew, wrapping itself around her legs and rising in billowing condensation whenever she breathed. She found an empty burlap bag on the floor and tied it around her shoulders over her thin cotton jacket.

  The thermometer beside the door read fifteen degrees. How long could she hold out? Even when she was missed, who would think of looking for her inside the freezer?

  Her face stung as crystals formed where her eyes had teared from the cold. Stubbornly she banged on the walls and door, her movements slower now, awkward, almost drunken. Finally she crouched on a crate of frozen produce and drew her legs to her chest to conserve heat while she tried de
sperately to think of a way out.

  She pulled her jacket tighter, her sketch pad banging against her arm. Sliding her hands into her pockets, she glanced down at the long burlap sack beside her and the soup bone protruding through the open top.

  But it wasn't a soup bone. It was a man's bent elbow emerging from the sack, which concealed the rest of his frozen body.

  Carly's scream echoed hollowly off the icy metal walls as she realized she was locked inside the freezer with a corpse.

  Ford sprinted over the terrace toward Archer. “Where in the hell is she?”

  “I believe she is still in her bedroom.”

  “Wrong. She was asleep when I checked five minutes ago, but now she's gone.”

  Archer set down a vase of blush-pink roses. “Gone where?”

  “Hell if I know.” McKay sniffed the air. “Someone's cooking. Maybe she's downstairs in the kitchen.”

  But the kitchen was empty. A pot sat near the stove, not quite cold, a cut baguette nearby.

  “Did you heat this?”

  Archer shook his head.

  “She was here not long ago.” McKay strode out to the terrace and scanned the rose garden. “Where did she go?”

  “No one has left the grounds,” Archer said tightly. “No one has come in since this delivery from Bridgetown.” He pointed at the cartons of food stacked outside the pantry.

  “What time was the delivery?”

  Archer rubbed the bridge of his broken nose. “A little after seven. I signed for the food myself. The order was placed three days ago, and everything was as expected.”

  A uniformed officer opened the back door. “No one in

  the garden or on the beach. We've checked the road, too. She isn't there.”

  “Do it again,” Archer ordered.

  “But—”

  “Do it,” McKay growled. “I'm going to recheck the house. Maybe she was in the projection room and I missed her.”

  But she wasn't there or anywhere else. Searching the house took seven minutes, and Carly was nowhere to be found. Her clothes were still in the closet and there were no signs of a struggle. Her borrowed camera equipment lay on a table beside the bed.