Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  With a sigh, McKay tugged on a shirt. “We'll finish on time. But if I see any more baby oil within a foot of me, I might have to deck a few of your crew,” he said darkly.

  “Hank, we need to go diffuse with that fill light. Remember, we're doing a slow dissolve from the sparkling bubbles in the champagne glass to the sparkling diamonds by the roses.”

  As the cameraman nodded, Carly checked her light meter one more time.

  Across the deck, McKay stood motionless on his taped cue mark, one elbow braced on the rail. His endurance and concentration were amazing. He had run the same scene again and again, each time managing to look calm and unruffled. She wondered yet again about his background and whether staying silent and motionless on cue was part of his training.

  “We've got a shadow on that champagne bottle,” she called to Hank, who nodded and rearranged the main key light. “And we're getting too much shine off the label again.”

  Hank waved a can of dulling spray and went to work. With this schedule, every shot had to count, and they both knew it.

  To make matters worse, at the last moment Mel had flown in to oversee the new shooting. Having her nervous boss underfoot definitely hadn't helped Carly's state of mind.

  “The man is a dream,” Mel said sotto voce. “Are you sure he isn't a professional? Maybe he's worked in Europe and that's why we don't know him.”

  Carly knew McKay was a professional at something, but it definitely wasn't modeling. “I doubt he's worked in Europe, Mel.” Not as an actor, at least.

  Carly's boss sniffed. “If the man's not in the business, he ought to be. I'm going to have a talk with him when we wrap. I could have him fully booked within a week.”

  Over his dead body, Carly thought.

  Hank did a slow pan, then zoomed in on McKay's face.

  “That should do it for this scene. Only two more to go.” Mel rubbed her neck. “I need a cigarette.”

  She was searching her pockets when the ship's security officer appeared headed doggedly toward them. “Do I know that man?” Mel asked.

  “Thompson is the security officer investigating Aimee Fiorento's death,” Carly explained.

  “I can't imagine what he wants with us,” Mel snapped. “We paid that snake ten times what we should have, and he still wanted to gouge us for more.”

  “Ms. Kirk, I need to ask you a few questions.” The notebook was already out, pen readied.

  “You know everything there is to know about our contract with Griffin Kelly and Aimee Fiorento,” Mel said irritably. “And if you recall, we're trying to finish a project for your employer right now.”

  Thompson frowned momentarily put off. Then the dogged look returned. “This will only take a moment.” He held out a grainy image that appeared to be taken from a passport photo. “Do either of you recognize this man?”

  Bland eyes in a bland face. Groomed hair and a sober gray suit. There was nothing distinctive about the man.

  “Never seen him, What about you, Carly?”

  Had he been standing behind Aimee Joy at the bar? Carly tried to re-create the crowded scene, certain she had seen the man very recently. Maybe at the dock?

  “I'm not sure,” she said her voice firm. “I may have passed him somewhere on the ship, but I've never spoken with him.”

  Thompson held out the photo a moment longer. “You're certain?”

  Carly nodded.

  “I'll note your answers. Now I need to speak with Mr. McKay.”

  “He's busy,” Mel said impatiently. “We're trying to shoot a commercial here, and I resent your intrusion.”

  “Your comment will be duly noted.” Thompson pocketed the photo along with his notebook, then headed toward McKay.

  “Unpleasant man.” Mel sniffed. “As if one of us tossed that woman into the pool.” She smoothed her Armani jacket. “Although I might have been tempted once or

  twice.” She pursed her lips. “Be a dear and finish up here, Carly. I want to check this morning's footage. And come down as soon as you wrap. Daphne is getting everything ready, and I'd like to discuss some ideas I had for the sound track.” She strode away without a backward look, not waiting for Carly's answer.

  It wasn't rudeness, Carly knew. It was simple obsession. To Mel, the job was everything—sun, moon, and stars.

  Carly was well on her way to that same obsession. Only now for some reason she found herself wondering if she wanted to continue knocking out fourteen-hour days, with family, friendships, and all hope of a personal life sacrificed in the process.

  It was the price of a career in the fast track, she thought.

  Why had it never bothered her before?

  Across the deck, Thompson was showing the photograph to McKay, who shook his head, then reached into his pocket, looking annoyed and distracted as he studied the high-tech pager he always carried.

  It appeared to be more bad news, and Carly had had her fill of bad news.

  To the east trade-wind clouds ran across the horizon. The scene was done, and she had more than enough footage to call for a wrap, but she couldn't seem to move. Some part of her wanted to continue like this forever, cruising turquoise waters with the sun on her shoulders and the protection of a man she barely knew.

  As the wind gusted in great waves across the deck, and seabirds wheeled overhead, Carly realized that she couldn't face the goodbyes that were only days away. The man was lethal in bed and his body left her giddy, but that was only the start of what she felt for him. Love was the middle and end.

  She nearly buckled at the realization. She had planned to be so careful, guarding her heart from any thought of happily ever after. But somewhere the script had changed and things had gone terribly wrong.

  She stood in the wind, hands locked across her chest, watching Ford at the rail, watching her crew. Watching herself and knowing she was not the same woman as the one who had boarded this ship, ambition and camera case firmly in hand. She would never be that woman again.

  Now she wanted the happily ever afters and was naïve enough to believe she deserved them. She was snagged tight, head over heels in love with a man who had made it clear there could be no tomorrows for them.

  Carly was walking away before she knew it. Her shoulders stiff, she made a quick gesture to Hank, knowing he'd see to the wrap.

  She refused to let her eyes fill with tears.

  Carly Sullivan did not cry over the way sunlight skimmed the ocean and dusted a man's cheek. She did not dream about a big wedding or how to trim her workload so she could be home in time for wine and a quiet dinner. No strings, no commitment. That stipulation had been hers.

  Behind her, footsteps echoed over the deck. She knew it was McKay following her. But when the danger was gone, he would be gone too.

  She heard him call her name but she didn't stop walking, her senses in turmoil. She had never planned on more than a pleasant, sweaty bout of shipboard romance. There were no white picket fences for her. She was her mother's daughter, and she had seen too well the pain that false expectations could inflict. The ones you loved never stayed.

  No white picket fences and no goodbyes.

  Yes, Carly had stipulated the terms herself. They guaranteed her safety and her sanity.

  She continued to walk blindly, bumping into strollers, joggers, and happy couples wandering hand in hand through the warm afternoon sunlight. She wasn't going to love Ford McKay or any other man.

  She swore that again and again as she brushed away her tears.

  What was wrong with her? What had happened to change her expression from cool professional scrutiny to unfocused sadness?

  McKay's first instinct had been to pull her to a halt and demand to know exactly what was going on inside her head. Then discretion intervened. There was no sign of threat or physical harm. She was smart and stubborn and doggedly independent. If she needed him, she would have let him know.

  But he couldn't forget the raw panic in her eyes—as if her world had shattered.

 
Carly finally took stock of her surroundings, frowned and made her way to Mel's cabin. McKay was nowhere in sight when the door swung open to the thunder of rock music.

  “I was just going to call to see where you were.” Grabbing Carly's arm, Mel pulled her into a room that looked like postapocalyptic chaos. Books, magazines, and shoes were piled on the bed and couch, and computer equipment took up all the remaining space.

  “Well, what do you think?” Mel demanded.

  Carly managed to smile. “I like the beaded negligee, but the purple sneakers have to go.”

  Mel shot her an imperious look. “The sneakers were

  purchased in a moment of temporary insanity. I was asking about the film.” Impatient, she gestured to the huge flat-screen monitor where a man stared into a fiery sunset with a glass of champagne raised to the horizon. He looked even more amazing on film than she remembered his face burnished by sunlight and his eyes dark with secrets.

  Secrets she would never know.

  Carly's heart lurched painfully. “It's got punch.”

  “It's got more than punch, my dear. That shot is going to make the cruise line millions—and it's going to make us flat-out famous, to say nothing of drumming up a flood of new projects.”

  Carly summoned a tone of enthusiasm. “Let's hope you're right.”

  Mel's brow rose. “Hope has nothing to do with it. They've shown the edited footage in New York, and the client is over the moon. Do you know what that means?”

  “No retakes?”

  “You jest at a time like this. What it means,” Mel said with a dramatic flourish, “is that our budget just got doubled again, and no questions asked. It means prime-time ad placements and maximum exposure for the agency. It means a celebration because lots more work will be coming your way, which is exactly what you wanted.”

  “Of course it is.” Carly wondered why her words sounded so hollow.

  “In that case, listen up. The cruise reps want us to work up different story lines for each of their ships. We're talking twelve different itineraries, my dear, and you're going to be traveling on every one over the next six months as part of your preparation. Is that heaven or what?”

  Carly tried to focus, tried to remember that this project was the culmination of years of struggle and dedication. “Wow. Six months…”

  “After we dock in Miami, we head right into meetings. Two members of the marketing team will meet us in port

  so we can set up a preliminary schedule. After that we'll tackle a budget.” Mel frowned. “Are you listening to all this? You look spacey.”

  “Of course.” Carly swallowed. “It's just a little hard to take in, considering the size of the project.”

  Mel pursed her lips. “This is no time for second thoughts. We'll be working twenty-hour days to get this project wrapped in time for fall scheduling. If you've got a problem with your commitment, I need to know now.”

  “No problems.” Carly told herself it was true. Having a personal life wasn't half as important as an opportunity like this. “When do we start?”

  Mel flipped off the monitor. “Tomorrow we strategize. Tonight we celebrate. You've earned it. And bring Ford along. I intend to convince him that he needs a major career change.”

  Carly turned away, wrestling her emotions back into some semblance of control. “I'll let him know. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

  “No, that's it.” Mel's gaze tightened. “Are you certain you're okay with this? I get the feeling you're on autopilot, and that's not like you.”

  “I'm fine.” Carly felt the first stab of a headache. “I need to take care of a few loose ends and then I'll talk to Ford.”

  “Dress up,” her boss ordered. “Slinky and glittery. I want everyone in the mood to celebrate. This is going to be a major campaign, and I plan to launch phase two with full pomp.”

  Feeling oddly empty, Carly went back to her cabin. She told herself there would be plenty of time for relationships after the campaign was finished. If McKay was interested in staying in touch, he could arrange it. Six months wasn't so long to wait.

  Yeah, right.

  She hesitated at her cabin door, remembering all of his security precautions. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked

  the door and shoved it open with one foot, feeling like a fool.

  No shots were fired.

  Always a good sign, she thought tiredly.

  A quick look told her the room was empty. The bathroom and veranda were also empty. As she kicked off her shoes, she noticed a vellum envelope angled against her pillow.

  Cruise-line stationery. The expensive kind.

  She tore it and read the message, then read it again, feeling her body go numb. There were three handwritten lines:

  Have to go. Can't explain now.

  Izzy will come by today, and you can trust him

  completely.

  He ll be right behind you until you dock.

  —M

  The words ran at a slant, as if written in haste. Carly blinked sharply as they started to blur.

  So this was it. No soft vows, no romantic declarations. Not a goodbye or a hint of an explanation.

  That was exactly what she'd told him she wanted wasn't it?

  She tossed the note onto her desk and stared at the silent room. Who was he to discard her like an old shoe without making any attempt to explain in person? It wasn't that easy to leave a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean.

  Maybe something had happened on Santa Marina.

  She swept up the phone to call Daphne, then put it back down slowly. Daphne would have told her if there were problems, which killed that possibility. Meanwhile, Carly realized she couldn't even reach McKay without calling every ranch in Wyoming—assuming his story of owning a family ranch was true. The thought made her crumple his letter and toss it angrily into the wastebasket by her bed.

  The bed where they'd ripped off each other's clothes and nearly killed each other.

  There was a soft tap at the door. Carly froze, willing the visitor to go away.

  As she waited tensely, the tapping came again. “Carly, are you in there? It's Izzy. I need to speak with you.”

  She opened the door, then stood back as he moved inside and put a pile of neatly folded towels on her table, all the time watching her face carefully. “You got his note?”

  She nodded.

  “He had to go.”

  “Why?”

  Izzy ran a hand across his jaw. “I can't tell you that.”

  “Where did he go?” Carly fought to keep her voice steady.

  “I can't tell you that either.”

  “Then tell me how I can reach him.”

  “You can't,” Izzy said quietly. “I'll be your contact now. If you have a problem, call me at this number.” He held out a slip of paper with ten digits. “Use it anytime, day or night, and I'll answer.”

  “You mean while we're on the ship?”

  “I mean anywhere in the world. That number will reach me in three rings max.”

  Carly stared at the numbers. “Does McKay have a phone number like this?”

  Izzy ran a hand over the folded towels, his expression guarded. “Just memorize that number,” he said softly.

  Carly looked down, committing the string to memory. “I've got it.”

  “Good.” He took the paper, crumpled it in one hand, and went into the bathroom.

  Carly heard the rumble of plumbing. “What if I need to talk to him?”

  He emerged with his usual quiet, confident gait, but he looked different now, she realized. Expectant, even excited.

  “Talk to me instead. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Tell me where he is.”

  “I can't do that.”

  “At least tell me if he's in danger.” She heard her voice crack slightly.

  He stared at her for long moments. “You want the truth or something to make you feel better?”

  “The truth.”

 
“Then here it is. I think you already know that if he isn't in danger now, he will be soon. It's what he does,” Izzy said gently. “No one does it better. Tight spots happen to be McKay's specialty.”

  “That's all you can tell me? Not where he is, or why? If something happens, I won't even know.” She turned away, struggling against raw fear.

  “Worrying won't help.” Izzy gestured to the digital camera equipment on Carly's desk. “Right now you've got your own work to handle. Why don't you focus on that?”

  As if she could. As if she wouldn't be wondering every second where he was. If he was bleeding, or even dead.

  Dead.

  She squeezed down hard, trapping all the panic, fighting a wave of dizziness.

  Izzy continued to study her face. “Remember the number?”

  Carly rattled off the string.

  “Good. Use it if you need to. Meanwhile I'll be close. Try not to worry.”

  “Sure. I'll try,” she said hollowly.

  The door had barely closed behind him when the phone rang. Carly picked up the receiver, feeling a wild burst of hope. “McKay?”

  “No, it's Mel. Everyone's waiting for you. What's wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Everything.

  Carly swallowed hard. “It's t-taking longer to get ready than I thought.”

  Tinny calypso music echoed from the other end of the line, mingled with the sounds of loud laughter.

  “Well, get into gear, love. The wrap party is about to start, and it's your baby. Come and take credit for your success. I warn you, if you don't, I will.”

  Carly looked around the room. The rose was still in its vase beside her bed. The amber necklace he'd given her gleamed on the desk, and night was falling. Through the windows, sea and sky ran together in a blur of restless silver.

  It was time to focus, she told herself. This project was hers, and she had carried it off well. It was time to file McKay under past history and move on.

  If he isn't in danger now, he will be soon.

  Tears were running down Carly's cheeks as she saw the crumpled note in the garbage. Blindly, she retrieved it, smoothing it open on her lap. “I'll be there,” she whispered. “In a little while.”