Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  Two women in expensive warm-up suits passed deep in conversation. McKay caught the words alimony and hidden assets before they rounded the corner.

  A door closed behind him. He dropped his towel and halted casually, surveying the empty corridor before and behind him as he scooped it up. None of the doors opened.

  Get a grip, he thought in disgust. No one knew he was here except Navy chain of command and his one onboard contact. The chance of someone having him under surveillance was nil. There was no reason for him to be jumpy.

  He glanced at his watch and realized he was going to be late if he didn't get the lead out and stop daydreaming about stacked redheads with an attitude problem.

  Silence met him when he opened the door to his stateroom a few minutes later.

  “Izzy, are you here?” McKay scanned the quiet room, reining in his impatience. He had been flying blind for twenty hours since he'd been pulled from the water, airlifted out of his current SEAL training mission in the Pacific, and been given cryptic orders to board this cruise liner. All McKay knew so far was that he was to present himself as a wealthy civilian enjoying a much-needed vacation. The details of his assignment were secret, to be imparted on board, courtesy of a freelancer he'd worked with before.

  A week in the Caribbean aboard the love boat.

  All in all, it should have been a plum assignment.

  Except that he'd only left port that morning and already he was stir crazy. He was a SEAL, highly trained and fiercely motivated. He was here to work and he damned well wanted to get down to it.

  The punch caught just under his lower rib. Spinning fast, he landed a hard jab in immediate retaliation.

  He sighed in irritation when he saw his attacker's white uniform, mahogany skin, and Cheshire cat grin. “Nice uniform, Izzy,” McKay growled.

  Ishmael Harris Teague, Izzy to his friends, was smart, cocky, and well on his way to making a fortune in the private sector. An electronics genius, he had a wicked sense of humor along with a reputation for enjoying his work. “Room steward, Mr. McKay.” His smile widened. “Bringing your lunch, as ordered.”

  “Like hell you are.” McKay looked him over. Izzy was clearly in top shape, and that would make their assignment easier.

  Whatever the damned assignment was.

  Suspected terrorist assault on the cruise ship?

  Smuggling operation?

  High-profile assassination?

  “Don't try coming up behind me again. In another few seconds you would have been dog food.”

  “Dream on.” Izzy pointed to his loaded food cart. “What do you think of my cover?”

  McKay had to agree that it was top-notch. A worker in uniform was invisible to a casual observer. “Get your papers set up. I'm going to change.”

  When McKay emerged, Izzy glanced at his white polo shirt and linen jacket. “Snappy clothes for a brown-water Navy SEAL.”

  McKay shrugged. “Cover, same as yours. What have you got for me? No one would tell me anything except that the mission has top priority.”

  Izzy slid a leather case from beneath the table skirt, unzipped it carefully, and removed the contents. From experience, McKay knew that his contact was not only a genius with every sort of electronic gadget but a thorough professional. Not even a stray piece of lint got past him. As a DEA agent, Izzy had worked in hot zones in a dozen countries and had never lost his cool. His irreverence had annoyed his superiors, but McKay knew the cocky attitude helped to keep things light. Now, as a freelance security agent, he still had that same cocky humor.

  Izzy pulled a stack of grainy satellite photographs from the case. “Meet Nigel Brandon, the governor-general of Santa Marina. Our man's an Oxford graduate with honors in medieval history. He spent four years with a merchant banking firm in London, then two more in Asia overseeing start-up energy companies.”

  McKay stared at the urbane face in the top photo. “Hardly your usual Caribbean functionary.”

  “It's in the family. Impeccable bloodlines. The Brandons have been running Santa Marina for generations.” Izzy shrugged. “But now the governor has trouble in paradise.”

  “What's the emergency? Santa Marina is a perfect example of modernization in action. They've got a solid economy, a stable political system, and a satisfied population—not to mention thousands of well-heeled vacationers who hit their perfect beaches every year.”

  “Maybe not so perfect.” Izzy held out a thick envelope. “These are your official orders, direct from D.C. In the last six months Brandon has been receiving death threats. They also target his family, including a woman whom he adopted ten years ago. Since she's legally still a

  U.S. citizen and usually off island working in the States, he contacted an old friend in the State Department and called in a few favors. He wants this kept low profile, but he wants her safe.”

  “Personal protection?” McKay bit back a curse. “I was hauled out of an important training mission, outfitted with designer clothes, and raced across the country to become a high-society baby-sitter?” He scanned his written orders in disgust and found them exactly as Izzy had outlined. McKay had heard about his getting assignments like this. The favors were usually discreet, but very much a fact of life in the military, where politics greased the wheels that kept appropriations flowing.

  And orders were orders, even if they stank.

  McKay snorted and tossed Brandon's photo back onto the cart. “I can tell from your face that there's more.”

  “What Brandon wants, he gets. The man's got solid-gold contacts. His country has been key to maintaining stability in the Caribbean. Ours is not to question why.”

  “But why a SEAL?” McKay snapped. “Why didn't they just pull in some spit-and-polish type from Georgetown or one of the Caribbean embassies?”

  “Because Brandon is picky. He wants the best of the best, someone who can keep the woman safe, no matter what. He wants skill and substance, not polished charm.”

  “Hell.”

  “I agree, but a job is a job. The high-tech boys at Langley figure we don't need to know any other details until they have more intel on who's behind the threats. Meanwhile, our orders are to protect the woman in question. Brandon has his own people protecting the rest of his family and staff.”

  McKay scowled out the window at the islands strung against the shimmering blue water. “Let me get this straight. The State Department and Langley pulled me out of a training mission and drafted you from the private

  sector so we could be baby-sitters?” He shook his head. “Brandon's friend in State must be a regular top gun.”

  “As high as they get,” Izzy said cheerfully. “Our mission, whether we choose to accept it or not,” he quipped, “is to provide round-the-clock protection for one Carolina Sullivan. She's very close to Brandon's daughter, who is safely tucked away in the family compound on Santa Marina.”

  McKay rubbed at the back of his neck in frustration. “Why doesn't State just put her into protective custody on the mainland until everything blows over?”

  “Too overt,” Izzy said. “Brandon asked that this be handled quietly, without any discernible break in routine that might alert the bad guys. He's sensitive about a bunch of spooks running around his country, too, so your only job is one-on-one protection.”

  McKay heard the tension in his voice. “But what?”

  “My guess is that something else is going on, and it's bigger than a few personal threats. If this blows up into a political situation, the State Department will be glad to have a man in place inside.”

  McKay had already figured out that much. It was the only way the assignment made sense. “Tell me about the woman. What do I need to know besides the fact that she's tight with the governor and his daughter?”

  “She's some sort of wunderkind shooting a series of commercials for the cruise line. She's got the creative talent to go way beyond commercials, I'm told.” Izzy shuffled through his stack of photographs and tugged one from the bottom of the pile.
“I'd say she's one hot redhead.”

  “Redhead?” McKay felt a sinking sensation as he glanced at the photo. “With the temper to match,” he muttered.

  “You two have already met? Fast work, McKay. When and how?”

  “This morning. If you could call it a meeting. She made me a proposition she assumed I couldn't refuse, then turned huffy when I did just that. After things got rowdy near the pool, I saved her from being beaned with a volleyball. In return, she bit my head off. End of story.”

  “ 'Fraid not,” Izzy said. “You have to get close and stay close. Since you've met, you're halfway there.”

  “Are you telling me my duties involve personal services to Ms. Sullivan?” McKay demanded.

  “I'm telling you to make nice. Improvise. Find out what it takes to get close, then do it.”

  Not in this or any other lifetime, McKay thought. Improvising was way down on his list of favorite things. He liked his work neat and clean, scripted by the book whenever possible. In missions filled with dangerous variables, going by the book was the only way to stay sane.

  And stay alive.

  “So what's the unofficial part of the assignment? We're not only here because of Brandon's request.”

  Izzy nodded. “We're to keep our eyes and ears open. If we find anything that doesn't add up, we're to report it immediately.”

  “Without knowing what we're looking for?”

  “That's all I have so far. Brandon's ticklish about revealing too much. Meanwhile, I understand the redhead has been looking for someone to fill in for her current model.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she's been prowling every inch of the ship for hard bodies. Apparently no one has panned out yet.”

  “I did,” McKay said, torn between embarrassment and annoyance as another puzzle piece slid into place. She hadn't wanted a bed partner but a model. He might have been flattered if he weren't so damned furious at the direction the assignment was headed.

  “Pass Go and collect two hundred dollars, my friend. This will put you exactly where you need to be. There won't be any funny business. From what I hear, she's a workaholic with no time for games.”

  “Probably sleeps with a Palm Pilot.” McKay made a sound of disgust. “How did she get hooked up with the Brandons?”

  “She and Brandon's daughter were close at school, and they got closer after Carly's parents died. Brandon went through the process of legal adoption, and Carly still spends time in Santa Marina whenever she has a break in her schedule.”

  McKay thought of his summers shoveling manure in Wyoming and baby-sitting tourists with too much money and too little sense. Apparently Carolina Sullivan was used to the easy life. “Spoiled rich girl, if you ask me.”

  “Spoiled or not, she's your current assignment. Tell her you'll help in any way she needs. It's the easiest way to stay close to her right now.”

  “What if my face ends up plastered over prime time TV?” McKay scowled. “To say nothing of my near-naked body. That's not the kind of publicity the Navy enjoys.”

  “Go with the flow, McKay I'll check in with Washington about any security concerns with the photography. And look at it this way: If you ever get tired of working for Uncle Sam, you might have a whole new career going for you in daytime drama.”

  “The thought thrills the hell out of me.” McKay glared as Izzy's laptop beeped. “What now?”

  “Priority message from D.C.” Frowning, Izzy studied the message on his screen. “Looks like a glitch. Brandon's daughter left Santa Marina while Daddy wasn't looking. She's on board too.” He held out a photo from his case.

  McKay scanned the image of a leggy blonde in a thong bikini barely larger than her designer sunglasses. “Nice … er, smile.”

  “You can say that again. Word is, she's getting married soon to the son of an old French banking family. They're planning a huge wedding on the island. Now she's slipped Daddy's leash and left a note saying she has to go help her friend.”

  McKay looked at the photo more closely and stifled a curse as he recognized the woman in the capri pants with Carly Sullivan near the pool. Resigned, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Swell. I met her, too.”

  “She's filling in as Carly Sullivan's assistant on the shoot. Brandon is fit to be tied.” Izzy packed the photos and equipment back into his bag. “The good news is that Brandon is circulating the story that she's at home with a nasty flu bug so the bad guys will think she's still at the estate.”

  “Color me happy,” McKay said sarcastically.

  “Don't worry, Daphne Brandon's not your priority. We concentrate on protecting Carly. Brandon has already begun to make new arrangements for his daughter's protection.” He stowed the packed bag carefully beneath the food cart and flipped down the tablecloth. “Don't knock it, my friend. Some of us get assigned as room stewards and have to do menial work.”

  McKay snorted. “Better than being propositioned a dozen times in twenty-four hours. Men used to wonder what women wanted, and now we know. Sex and lots of it. They're not afraid to name the time and place.” He gave a rueful laugh. “How did I miss the sexual revolution?”

  “You were busy saving the world for peace, honor, and the American way.” Izzy dug in his bag and produced an aluminum box. “I'm told you weren't issued any ordnance.” He lifted out a 9 mm pistol. “This is for close encounters of the hostile kind, and here's the shoulder harness. There are walkie-talkies and extra ammo on your bed. Keep them handy just in case there really are hostiles aboard. Brandon doesn't seem like the type to be spooked easily.”

  McKay summarized his opinion of Brandon and his mission in one short, pithy phrase.

  Izzy laughed. “Gotta go. See you on TV, McKay.”

  McKay made a noncommittal sound as he cracked open the door to check activity in the hall. Out of habit, he stepped back behind the door as a steward appeared in

  the corridor with a package of laundry. When the coast was clear, McKay gave Izzy a two-finger wave, then stood back to let him wheel the food cart outside.

  “Watch your six o'clock,” Izzy muttered closing the door.

  “Count on it.”

  Out in the Caribbean, the sleek yacht rocked quietly at anchor. Three men sat unsmiling while sea birds wheeled above them in the sunlight.

  “It is a most unusual thing,” the biggest of the men said, his sad eyes gleaming. “You see this?” He pushed aside a Baccarat crystal glass as if it were cheap plastic and fingered a stack of bills. “What you see here is paper, nothing more. But men live and die beneath the weight of a single sheet. They howl, they grovel, they kill, all for this.”

  As Nikolai Vronski studied the green and black lines in wonder, the handpicked men around him said nothing. Their silence was loud in the large boat that rocked in sunlight so far from the bitter cold of Mother Russia. Nor did the men speak when Vronski lit a match and touched the flame to the crisp U.S. hundred-dollar bill in his hand.

  President Franklin's face blurred in a fine wisp of smoke. The Russian bent closer, as if catching warmth from the small fire, though the day was hot and the sky cloudless.

  “Paper,” he repeated dropping the flaming sheet into a metal box already littered with the ashes of a dozen other U.S. bills. “Only paper.”

  It was more money than Nikolai Vronski had once imagined could exist in the whole world. One bill alone could have kept his tiny Russian village alive for years, children, old men, stoic women, and howling dogs.

  There had been no money then. There had been no shoes, no flour for pierogi. No music and no joy, only

  pain and hopelessness without end. All because of paper like this.

  On a bitingly cold night while the hungry dogs howled, he had lost his father. And on the same kind of night of cold and desperation, he had lost his only son.

  Fate? He considered the question long and well. As a Russian, he knew the face of fate like an old, frightening enemy.

  Or was it simply the pow
er of this thing called paper, which immortalized dead men and condemned others to early, anonymous death?

  The bill fell away into ashes and Vronski lit another, silent in his expensive deck chair while his men watched impassively and the sea churned beneath them.

  No way out.

  Desperately, Carly checked the row of fresh photographs hung by clothespins along the wall of her shipboard office.

  Beside her, Daphne stalked from photo to photo. “The snake should have told you he couldn't do the swimsuit shots, not with that stomach. Now you can't use him, but you still have to pay him.”

  Carly pulled down a photo and sighed. “His agent was better than ours.” She crumpled the print and tossed it into the garbage can. “It's too late to hire another model—the swimsuit scene has to be shot tomorrow while we're in port.” Carly sank onto the desk. “Who's in the file? Wasn't there a surfer I interviewed for a coffee commercial two years ago?”

  Daphne shook her head. “He moved to Costa Rica, started a new religion, and hasn't been heard of since.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Carly raked her hair back from her face. “I give up. What else could possibly go wrong?” Right on cue, the phone rang on her desk.

  Daphne glanced at Carly and answered in her calmest voice. One brow rose as she handed the phone to Carly. “Your boss,” she whispered.

  Mel Kirk was the youngest woman ever to become

  creative director at a major New York ad agency. It was no coincidence that her staff called her Captain Kirk behind her back. She had a string of successful commercials behind her, and she wasn't afraid to throw her weight around.

  Carly had a feeling that weight was about to be thrown her way. “Mel, great to hear from you. Any developments?”

  “The client is delighted with our slogan. ‘We've got your dream’ is exactly what he wants. The problem is, he wants preliminary shots right away. I know you've had a problem with the model we signed in California—but I can't put the client off much longer. Have you had any luck with a replacement, at least for the body shots?”