Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  “Carly.” Daphne took her arm and gently pulled her around in a circle.

  Ford McKay stood in the doorway. One look at his black jeans and form-fitting black T-shirt made Carly's legs shaky.

  The sane part of her mind admitted he had every right to refuse her and get on with his vacation. The photographer in her wanted to scream at the unthinkable waste of raw material.

  He slid his hands into his hip pockets, making his jeans even tighter. Carly framed him mentally, imagining him on a windy beach with the sun setting behind him. The shot would be a killer. It might even make her career.

  If only.

  She forced herself to stay calm, hiking one hip over her worktable and raising a brow “I hope you're not here for more groveling.”

  Daphne stared at Carly. “You actually groveled?”

  “Close enough,” Carly muttered. “But I won't do it again. If that's what you came for, you're out of luck, Mr. McKay.”

  “No, I came to give you an answer.” He scanned the room, taking in its controlled disorder and expensive digital film equipment. “Looks as if you're well supplied. That's a nice computer setup.”

  “We're in great shape with equipment. What's on your mind?”

  “I have some questions.” He prowled the room, glancing at lighting equipment and an array of cameras. “How long is the commitment—if I say yes?”

  “Two days, tops.” She could possibly squeeze things into two days, Carly thought. Maybe.

  He lifted a camera, checked out the small monitor. “Nice toys you have.”

  “They're not toys,” she said coolly.

  “You're right.” He put down the camera. “What would I have to do?”

  “Don't worry, no nude shots,” Daphne called throatily.

  McKay turned his face shuttered.

  “Hey, just a joke.” Daphne gave a slow sigh. “Too bad for the women of the world.”

  “My friend has a strange sense of humor. Please ignore her,” Carly said, shooting a dark glance at Daphne.

  “And to answer your question, you'd be wearing a tuxedo in one shot and casual clothes in the other. The first shoot would be aboard ship today; the second would take place tomorrow in Barbados.”

  He seemed to digest the information stoically. “Is someone meeting you there?”

  “We'll have a local support team, but my crew is aboard. They'll handle everything but transportation.”

  McKay tapped his fingers on a board filled with clippings of Caribbean beaches. “Sounds reasonable. Only one day in Barbados?”

  Hope glimmered. Was he giving in after all? “One day should be enough.”

  “One day aboard ship, one day in Barbados.” He studied the framed photographs on Carly's desk. “What then?”

  “Maybe a half day of touch-ups, if necessary. If not, you'd be done.”

  “I see. Then you leave the ship after the filming is done?”

  “No, we'll stay on for filler shots and some sound work, then return to Miami.” Carly gave in to her impatience. “Is this relevant?”

  He made a noncommittal sound and lifted a black-and-white photo of a small boat hurtling over angry rapids at the base of towering canyon walls. “Nice shot. Looks like it was taken from a boat. Damned hard picture to get.” He looked across at Carly. “Your work?”

  Cold brushed her as it always did when the memories came. She took the picture from his hands, studied it for a moment, then replaced it gently on the table. “My mother's,” she said stiffly.

  “She's good. Shooting in that part of the Grand Canyon takes guts as well as skill.”

  “You've been there?”

  “A time or two. Using a camera was the last thing on my mind.”

  “She wasn't afraid of much.” Except missing the next shot, Carly added silently. Maybe that was why she hadn't been able to stay home for more than a month at a time, why they had kept moving, state to state and country to country until—

  “I saw a photo with that same energy in Life about twenty years ago, a dramatic shot of sharks near the Great Barrier Reef.”

  Carly blinked, pulled from her bitter reverie. “Hers. She liked dangerous things.” Carly saw the photo in her mind just as she had watched it take form in the developing bath in her mother's darkroom years before. The violence and the danger in it had left her uneasy even then.

  “You must have had some amazing times.”

  Carly ignored the question in his voice, refusing to look back where so much pain lingered. “Have you made up your mind? I think I've told you all there is to tell.”

  McKay leaned against the wall and watched her.

  No, she hadn't come close to telling him everything. Emotion simmered in the hard set of her jaw and the flash of her eyes. His questions about the photos had pushed a button all right. He'd run that particular stretch of white water only two years before as part of a special training mission. Even fully equipped with protective gear, a man felt his stomach knot when the monster power of the river took hold, tossing boats into the air like toothpicks. How much more dangerous had it been twenty years ago, riding a flimsy wooden frame with a camera gripped desperately in hope of the perfect angle and the perfect light?

  McKay couldn't even imagine.

  Pain had swept Carly's eyes when she'd taken the photo from him, and her hands had trembled. He made a mental note to find out why.

  But first he had to swallow his distaste and get on with his mission, for which Uncle Sam was going to owe him big time. “Okay,” he said slowly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I'll help you with your body shots or whatever you call them.”

  She looked stunned. “You will?”

  “When I give my word it holds.”

  Even if it was unrelenting torture.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What changed your mind?”

  “Maybe I'm in the mood to be a nice guy.” He shrugged. “I figured it was a small thing to drive the panic out of your eyes. And I liked your honesty.” His lips curved. “For a jerk, I have my moments.”

  Carly's face filled with heat. “I apologized for that.”

  “So you did. Very nicely too. So when do we start?”

  “There are contracts to sign. I don't suppose you have an agent?”

  “No agent.”

  “In that case, we'll go with a standard contract, with all the usual rights and waivers.”

  “Whatever.”

  McKay looked up as Daphne slapped a sheet of paper and a pen onto the table in front of him. “Just sign on the dotted line.” He raised a brow as Daphne swept the contract away before the ink began to dry.

  “Can you start right now?” Carly gave him a gleaming smile. “I did tell you that I'm desperate.”

  Yes, she had. She proved it now, pacing with edgy energy, then tugging props out of drawers and checking her cameras.

  “Why not?” McKay said. If she gave him half a chance, he'd find a dozen reasons why he couldn't start at all.

  “Don't sound so excited. I promise to bring you back alive. Take it from me, you're going to sizzle. You have a killer body.”

  He didn't give a damn how he looked on film as long as it kept him close enough to see that she was safe for the next week. “Thanks. Even if I don't believe it.”

  “You'd better believe it. That wasn't flattery. It was a

  statement of fact from a professional.” She turned away, scooping up a light meter. “Will you phone the crew, Daphne? Tell them we'll be setting up for the sunset shoot. And don't forget the ice bucket for the champagne.”

  “Already done. I made the calls from the bedroom while you two were bickering. The tux is already on its way to the set,” she called.

  “Perfect.” Carly gripped her new star's arm and rushed him to the door. “Let's go make history.”

  “I say the shea butter for the swimsuit scene.”

  “And I say the baby oil.” As she spoke, Carly drizzled some oil on her palm. “Would you mi
nd raising your arm?”

  McKay complied reluctantly, wondering if the whole world had gone mad or only he had.

  For an hour he'd been poked probed and tested with meters. Now six people were huddled in a circle arguing about what kind of oil to use on his shoulders while a woman did something to his hair with a big comb.

  McKay had been in dangerous situations before. He had bellied through leeches and fetid mud beneath a blazing sun and waited motionless for a sniper's lethal fire. Not once had he felt as trapped and frustrated as this.

  “You see?” Carly ran oil-sleek fingers over his skin. “We want a subtle glow, not a major corona effect. We're creating dreams here.” She turned to a lanky man with spiked hair. “How's the light, Hank?”

  The man jammed a light meter against McKay's cheek and nodded. “Perfect, boss.”

  “So, where's my dream woman?” McKay hoped he wouldn't be paired with some high-fashion prima donna.

  “There is no woman,” Carly said briskly. “That's part of the theme. We focus on you and your reactions. That

  way women viewers will project themselves into the scene, reinforcing brand loyalty.”

  “What about male viewers?”

  “Not nearly as important. Most cruises are purchased by women or for women, so that's our target market.” Carly studied the horizon. “In twenty minutes the sun should be positioned just right. Let's get into place, people. I want more orchids on that chair, and someone please mist the champagne bucket so it has the right condensation. Hank, check those gel filters, too. Drinks are on me when we finish.”

  She was good at this, McKay decided. She had an eye for every detail without being overbearing, and somehow she motivated her staff to equal enthusiasm. The result was a team effort, efficient and very smooth.

  Maybe their worlds weren't so far apart after all. A training mission had to run the same way, as a team effort.

  “The tux is here,” Daphne called out. “I hung it in the bedroom.”

  “Finally,” Carly said with relief. “I need you to hurry getting changed, Mr. McKay. If you need some help—”

  “Ford,” he reminded her. “And I think I can manage to dress myself.”

  “Just remember, no shoes, no socks. Tie undone. You've come outside to relax before a big social evening on board.”

  “Yes ma'am.” He resisted the urge to salute. How was he supposed to look relaxed with all those people hovering around him with cameras and lights?

  Carly frowned at him. “Your hair is awfully short.”

  “So sue me,” he said irritably. Someone shoved another light meter against his neck. “Aren't they about done?”

  “Details count. You don't have a problem with a woman giving orders, do you?”

  His voice fell. “I take orders from the person who's best equipped to give them—man, woman, Martian or gorilla. For now, you're it.”

  “Fine. I guess I'm a little touchy on that subject.” “You've probably got your reasons.” McKay imagined she had encountered all kinds of male egos in her work. No doubt some baboon had stepped on her toes after she'd given him a perfectly reasonable order. Maybe he'd caught her in a deserted corner and decided to find out how that trim body felt beneath all that silk.

  He scowled at the thought. “And if I ever get my hands on the man who gave you those reasons, you might want to leave the room.”

  “I'm not sure whether to be grateful or insulted.” “Neither,” he grumbled. “Let's just get this job done.” He turned away, tugging off his shirt as he headed for the bedroom to change.

  Carly refused to be nervous. He was just another body and this was just another job. There was no reason for anxiety. She frowned down at the third battery she'd dropped in the last five minutes.

  Daphne watched Carly reach for her cappuccino as they stood on the veranda. “You want to watch the caffeine consumption. That stuff is pure rocket fuel.”

  “Who's jittery? I'm solid as a rock.” Carly stuck out her hand and watched it lurch. “That's just ship movement.” She raked back her windblown hair, scanning the horizon. The sun was perfect, a ball of liquid gold glowing behind red clouds. The props were ready, and her crew was focused and in place.

  So where was he? If he didn't hurry, they'd miss the light.

  She turned toward the cabin and stopped dead, facing six feet two inches of hard, dangerous male in a tuxedo that fit like a masterpiece. The silk skimmed his broad shoulders and rode smoothly at his lean waist. As she had instructed, his feet were bare, his cuffs were rolled up, and his formal black tie lay open over his unbuttoned shirt.

  He was all control on the surface, but an edge of violence simmered beneath, and the contrast was striking. Carly swung up her camera and ran a few frames, unable to take her eyes from the monitor.

  He claimed the screen. The man was a study in disciplined power, right off the alpha chart.

  God help the women of the free world when this picture hit the airwaves.

  “Catch me,” Daphne whispered. “I'm going to faint.”

  “Don't even think about it. I need you sane and focused so I can finish this scene in time to save my job.”

  “Forget sane. Does the man look half as amazing as I think he does?”

  “Absolutely,” Carly murmured. “He also looks annoyed as heck and ready to back out any second. Hank,” she called. “Let's get those colored filters fine-tuned and the champagne misted.”

  With the last details covered, Carly turned and took a deep breath. “You look—”

  “Phenomenal,” Daphne said.

  Carly ignored her. “I'm glad the tux fits so well. If you'll stand beside this line taped on the deck, you'll be in position for the cameras.” She guided McKay into place, ignoring a sudden stab of tension. She wasn't going to be silly about this. He was just a job, after all.

  “Let's get started.” She raised her camera, checked the lens, and cleared her throat, realizing something was wrong.

  “The camera is upside down,” Daphne said helpfully.

  “Of course it is. I was checking the battery,” Carly lied.

  Pre-shoot nerves, nothing more.

  She moved one of the teak deck chairs, pulled the champagne bucket closer, then arranged two crystal flutes on the glass table next to a spray of Indonesian orchids.

  Satisfied, she stood back, watching McKay—watching sunlight turn his face into an arresting clash of light and shadow. It was a pity that his features would not appear in the final scene, since they were still committed to use Griff Kelly for the head shots. The transposition work would take place after the filming.

  Carly scanned the main cameras, painfully aware of how little time they had until the sun went down. “Hank, how's the setup?”

  “Okay over here, Carly. Ready to roll.”

  “Excellent.” She looked at McKay, his expression cool and arrogant, impatience in every hard line of his body. He really hates doing this, she thought.

  On impulse, she decided not to tell him the cameras were rolling, afraid he would tense up. “Hank, you are cued.” Her cameraman nodded. He knew her well enough to guess what she was doing.

  She saw the red light appear, indicating that the film was running. “Let's run through this once for practice, please. Look toward the sun, Ford. One elbow on the deck rail. Yes, that's perfect.”

  “You mean I have to do something?”

  Carly almost laughed at the wariness in his voice. “No bungee jumping or skydiving, I promise you.” She turned him slightly, adjusting his silhouette against the sunset. Then she moved back out of camera range. “Now lift the silver picture beside the orchid.”

  He muttered something as he picked up the photograph.

  “That's it. Now pour a glass of champagne, then turn toward the rail and raise the glass. It's your toast to a dream that's finally coming true.”

  The man was enthralling. He didn't seem to give a damn if ten people or a thousand were watching. Every movement was casual, yet hi
nted at absolute control and cool intelligence. Carly knew that every woman who saw him would yearn to be the one who could pierce that tough male shell.

  “Hank,” she murmured “are you getting all this on your end?”

  “Oh yeah,” the cameraman whispered.

  “Okay, Ford. You're doing fine. Now we hear the door opening.” On her cue, one of the camera techs re-created the creak of hinges. “Slow footsteps. Very expensive heels. Daphne? You all set?”

  “Ready, Carly.”

  “Stay just off camera until I tell you.” She nodded as Daphne straightened a bracelet that could have fed a Third World country for a week. “Lift your hand, Daphne. Let us see the bracelet.” Carly framed carefully, catching the gleam of diamonds against McKay's black satin collar. “Now we hear the opening strains of Vivaldi. Softly, then swirling louder.”

  The lush melody of violins and brass swept the deck. The sound would actually be dubbed in later, but Carly liked to use music to key up the atmosphere for her actors.

  And right now the atmosphere couldn't have been better. It was almost too perfect, in fact. Something had to go wrong.

  Carly fought off a wave of anxiety, angling in on the diamonds gleaming like white fire against the sunset. “Turn around, Ford. Very slowly. Very controlled. Daphne, keep your hand right at his shoulder. Follow him as he turns without breaking contact.”

  Mentally, Carly raced through every detail of the scene. The focus was tight, the mood perfect, and she had never done anything better. But she knew that most of the credit belonged to her new model. The man was lethal— all tough eyes and tough body, claiming the camera just as she'd predicted.

  “Daphne, move in slightly and raise your hand to his jaw. Tender, okay? As if you have all the time in the world.”

  Carly's pulse hammered as she watched Daphne's hand move into place. She gripped her camera, almost afraid to breathe. “Hold it. Draw it out, that's right. Done,” she called. Suddenly giddy, she collapsed against

  the deck railing. “Daphne, get that bracelet back into its case and call security before I have a heart attack. Ford you're a killer. Hank, you and the crew take a break. Champagne all around.” Her legs were unsteady and she was still clutching her camera. Somehow she couldn't let the scene go.