Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  “Why do we need a break?” McKay asked tensely. “Aren't we going to shoot the real scene?” When a wave of laughter spilled from the crew, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?” he demanded.

  “I'm delighted to say that we have just completed a flawless scene in one take. Congratulations,” she said breathlessly. “You were brilliant.”

  For the space of a breath, anger flared in his eyes. Carly watched in fascination as he blocked his reaction before anyone else noticed.

  So the camera hadn't lied. This was definitely a man who valued being in control. No emotion got through unless he wanted it to.

  Aware that soothing of the waters was due for her deception, Carly filled a glass with champagne and held it out to him. “Sorry. I thought it would help if we jumped right in.”

  “Very smooth. It's been a while since anyone conned me that well.”

  “And that bothers you.”

  “Damned right.” He tugged off the tuxedo jacket, frowning when she put her hand on his arm.

  “I was only trying to make this easier for you.”

  “I know.” The anger in his eyes receded slightly. “Otherwise you'd be looking for another actor right now.” He took the champagne glass and drank slowly. “Apology accepted on one condition.” He turned the glass, studying her over the rim. “You. Me. Dinner, tonight.”

  Dinner?” Her wariness was instant. “Why?”

  “Because you have to eat. Since we're going to work together, it will help if I get to know you.”

  “Reasonable, I suppose,” she said finally. “But I have to check film, then pack up cameras for tomorrow.”

  “Your staff can handle that. They won't miss you for a few hours.” McKay finished his glass of rich, fruity Roederer Blanc de Blanc. “Time's up. Yes or no?”

  Carly studied her crew, busy picking up props. “I can't stay long.”

  “Agreed. I'll meet you here in ten minutes.” He slanted her a look that skimmed from head to toe. “Wear something comfortable.”

  Carly watched him stride off, aware of the curious glances of the crew. She heard a chuckle and flushed. “What's so funny?”

  “Hey, going to dinner with him is fine by me,” her head cameraman said. “We'll finish up here.”

  “The bracelet's gone back to the vault under guard.” Daphne took her arm. “I'll make sure all the cameras are back in the office before I lock up.”

  “But—”

  “Go,” Daphne said impatiently. “Just because you're busy doesn't mean you can't have a little private time. It's true, getting to know him will help your work.”

  “It sounds even thinner coming from you than it did from him,” Carly said flatly.

  “Then why did you say yes?”

  She shrugged. “Curiosity. Or maybe because I can't turn down a challenge.”

  Daphne studied Carly in thoughtful silence. “Wear the linen sundress with a single strand of pearls.”

  Carly flushed. “I will not dress up. This isn't a date.”

  “You still want to look your best.” Daphne tapped her cheek. “Definitely the red linen.” She shooed Carly toward the door. “Your cabin is across the hall, remember? Along with the life you keep forgetting to live.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Go. The man just saved your job. The least you can do is thank him.”

  Thanking him was one thing, Carly thought. Suffering was another.

  “We can't be eating here.” She stared at the wall of windows overlooking the ocean. “Not in the health club.”

  “I told you comfortable.” McKay studied her dress as he opened the door. “Not that I dislike your choice, but pearls may be a little overdressed for the treadmill.”

  “So sue me,” Carly grumbled stealing his line. “I try to avoid places like this.”

  “Too busy, right? You figure you get enough exercise working out with your camera. Or maybe bench-pressing your Palm Pilot.”

  “How did you know I have a Palm Pilot?”

  “Call it a lucky guess.”

  “How do you know so much about me after less than a day?”

  “Must be a gift I have.”

  She tried not to fume as they were greeted warmly by a stunning woman in yellow spandex.

  “Why is no one else around?”

  “Being famous has its perks.”

  “You're famous?” Carly whispered.

  “No, you are. Martina was delighted to open the club as part of your research.” He ran a finger over her pearls, one brow raised. “Nothing reduces stress like exercise.”

  Carly realized that Martina was waiting patiently, a towel and a red spandex leotard in her hand.

  The outfit should have sent her running for the nearest exit. Spandex meant a serious workout, while the faded sweat suit McKay produced from the bag over his arm implied a man who showed no mercy on himself or others.

  Carly didn't have time for any of it.

  She was ready to turn tail when McKay took her arm firmly. “Not scared of a little sweat, are you?”

  “No way.” Goaded, she took the exercise suit and sputtered a thank you.

  “Good. You can change in there.” He pointed past a fi-cus tree. “I'll warm up your treadmill.”

  “How kind of you.” Carly tried not to fume as she wriggled into the spandex, feeling like an absolute fool. Irritably, she tugged at the high-cut leg openings. What had made her think the man had any romantic intentions?

  On the plus side, rather than outline every imperfection, the spandex smoothed and complimented, making her body look more toned than it was, and the tights that went with the leotard were surprisingly comfortable.

  McKay's gaze lingered longer than necessary as she strolled across the empty exercise area. He had changed, too, and his sweats looked like they had suffered major abuse in the name of peak conditioning.

  “You're serious about this, aren't you?” Carly resisted an impulse to tug at the form-fitting spandex.

  “Absolutely. Your water's over there. Use it frequently. Hydration is the number-one rule.”

  “Do you own a health club?” Carly asked suspiciously. “Daphne swore you did.”

  He seemed to fight a smile. “No, but I spend a lot of time working out. Lie down,” he ordered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I'm not going to jump you, Sullivan. You need to warm up before we start.”

  “Oh.” Mortified, Carly sank to one knee beside him. “I guess that doesn't mean hot chocolate with marshmal-lows?” she said wistfully.

  McKay didn't crack a smile as he took her through leg lifts and stretches, then steered her toward a sleek steel treadmill. “Five minutes, no incline, just to get your heart rate up. We'll start you at a walk.”

  “What's this ‘we’ stuff? I'm the one doing the work.”

  “You'll be getting the benefits, too.”

  “You're really into all this exercise stuff, aren't you?”

  “Your body is your finest tool.”

  “Funny, I always considered it my weakest link.”

  But five minutes passed before Carly knew it. At the end of ten, she felt comfortably flushed, more energized than she had in weeks. “Okay, I'm pumped. Where do I sign up for kickboxing?”

  “First things first, Champ.” McKay steered her to a machine with a padded seat. “Stomach crunches next. Hold, exhale, and tuck. Form counts.”

  Carly stared at him. “Don't tell me you're some kind of personal trainer.”

  “Stop procrastinating.”

  She slid gingerly onto the seat, embraced the metal bar, and tucked as ordered.

  “Good. Only forty-nine more to go.”

  “Wait a minute,” she snapped.

  “Just a joke. Keep your back to the seat. No sliding forward or you'll end up with pulled muscles.”

  Carly huffed her way to ten and sat back with a gasp. “Since this was your idea, tell me what we've learned about each other, beyond the fact that you
have an unhealthy liking for pain, especially when it's someone else's.”

  He held out a bottle of water and waited until she drank. “I've learned that you can stay the course.” He handed her a towel for her face. “That you like a good challenge. Stubborn to the bone.”

  Carly hid a smile. The man had her pegged. “Is that a fact? What else?”

  He braced an arm against the weight machine. “You've learned that I have your best interests at heart and that I'm probably not going to jump you.”

  There was absolutely no reason for her to be disappointed. “How do I know that?”

  “Because if I'd planned to jump you, the sight of you in that sexy spandex would have clinched the deal.”

  Carly felt a little light-headed. “I'm not sexy. I'm—”

  McKay skimmed her cheek. “Sexy as hell, Sullivan. Case closed.”

  He was suddenly too close, too calm. She felt a surge of relief when he gripped a horizontal bar and slid into effortless pull-ups. Carly lost count after fifty and simply indulged in the pleasure of watching the play and recoil of his muscles. “Are you in the military?”

  “What makes you think that?” His voice didn't change as his body rose and fell, utterly controlled.

  “Something about the way you stand the way you move. There's a sense you give off.” She frowned searching for the right word. “As if you're… ready.”

  “It's something I pride myself on.” He dropped from the bar and tugged off his sweatshirt.

  Sweat glistened on his chest. Carly stared aching for a camera.

  “Ready for the bench press?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Here, slide in. I'll keep the weight low. This will help your camera work by building upper-body strength. Go for ten.”

  “Sure, why not? All I can do is break both arms.” Despite an initial awkwardness, she was surprised to feel a pleasant heat in her arms as the bar rose and fell smoothly. “What do you do when you're not giving fitness lessons?” she asked between lifts.

  “I keep busy.”

  “Busy, as in investment banking? Car dealerships? Real estate?”

  “I move around a lot.” He reached over and caught the bar. “No more. You don't want sore muscles while you're juggling lenses.” He laughed at Carly's expression of utter horror. “Don't worry, it's not going to happen.” He tossed her the water bottle.

  “Are you in the travel industry, McKay?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what, exactly?”

  He flicked his towel lazily. “Recently I've been developing deep-water rebreather technology.”

  “As in scuba diving?”

  “Close enough.”

  She considered the answer. “So you're some kind of scientist or engineer or something.”

  “Or something.”

  “Are you with a giant corporation or are you in independent R&D?”

  His lips curved. “Our corporation's pretty big. Our team is damned good at what they do.”

  “Why do I get the impression that there's a whole lot you're not telling me?”

  “I have no idea. Now back to the treadmill before you cool down.”

  Before she realized it, Carly was on the machine beside him, easing into a comfortable trot while red lights raced over the elaborate panel. “I know some of these lights show speed and distance. What do the others mean?”

  “If you can read them, it means you're still alive. That's always a positive sign.”

  Carly huffed on. “You're pretty good at this stuff. If you ever want to become a personal trainer, you could probably make a fortune.”

  “I'll keep that in mind,” he said dryly. “So how did you get started behind the camera? Did your mother show you the ropes?”

  Carly ignored the sudden tension at her chest. “Now and again. Mostly I learned by watching.”

  “You're good at that.” His stride lengthened. “Your mother must be very proud of you.”

  Carly missed a step, then fought her way back into stride. “She's dead. I lost both my parents when I was fifteen.” Aware of his gaze, she concentrated on the flickering lights.

  “I'm sorry.” His pace was effortless and unflagging. “You've got some amazing photographs. You must have wonderful memories to go with them.”

  The red lights blurred for a moment. Carly punched the power button, slamming the machine to a halt. “She left me memories,” she said breathing hard. “Lots of memories.”

  She grabbed her towel and stepped down, hating the pull at her chest. Hating the swirl of bitter thoughts. “I've had enough.”

  “Stay.”

  “I can't.” To her fury, her voice was ragged.

  Without warning, she found herself pinned against a vertical bar. “Talk to me,” he ordered. “Don't turn away and go inside yourself.”

  “I don't want to talk.” She swung out one arm wildly, fighting to break his grip. “Let me alone, McKay. Who asked you to—”

  She fought back painful memories, furious to feel the bite of tears. Her pulse was hammering and her legs were shaky. “I don't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever.”

  His hands settled gently at her face. “Why?”

  “Because my past is no one's business.”

  “I pushed. My fault.”

  She stiffened as his knuckle skimmed her cheek. “I think we should go shower and change.”

  “In a minute.” There was something hungry in his eyes, something that tore at her breath.

  “You said you weren't going to jump me,” she blurted.

  “Plans change. I like how you sweat, Sullivan.”

  “Who's sweating?”

  “Both of us, last time I checked.”

  Her gaze fell to his lips. She wanted to run, but not as much as she wanted to feel that hard mouth locked on hers. She closed her eyes as he traced her jaw. His fingers tightened and she felt his tension as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Flustered she tried to pull away, shocked by the smooth slide of contact.

  He eased a hand into her hair. “No more questions.”

  Why did her pulse falter? Why did she let him take her mouth again and want him to take more?

  “Bad idea.” She pulled away, struggling for calm. “Let's forget this happened.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “It's late and—”

  He covered her mouth with one finger. “Stop running away from me. Stop fighting and let me see who you are.”

  “What I am is sweaty, tired, and a mess.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Brave, scrappy, generous. And you don't even see it.”

  He swung around sharply as a key turned in the lock. The door was opened by a man in a white uniform, and Carly recognized the room steward she had met that afternoon.

  “I have your dinner, sir.” He waved one hand over a cart laden with covered dishes. “Grilled shimp with fresh salsa and roasted asparagus. Where shall I serve you?”

  “The table by the window should do fine,” McKay said dryly. “You're right on time.”

  The steward's expression was bland. “Service is our highest priority, Mr. McKay.” He slid the dishes into place, then laid out linens and silver. “Will there be anything else? Things are a little busy on the floor tonight.”

  McKay seemed to stiffen. “Busy how?”

  “Ms. Sullivan's crew was celebrating today's shoot.

  There have been quite a few beverage orders.” He sent a measuring glance at Carly.

  “Exactly how many beverage orders?” she asked uneasily.

  “Six bottles of champagne. Your crew seems to enjoy German beer, too.”

  Carly sighed. “I'd better go.”

  “No need to rush.” The steward scratched his jaw lightly. “Your assistant told them that if they wanted more champagne they would have to foot the bill themselves. She seems to have them in line. Before I left, she was dispensing imported coffee and reminding them they have an early call tomorrow.”

  Carly h
ad to smile at the idea of Daphne as den mother, but she knew from experience that Daphne made exacting work more fun than it had any right to be. She could charm the smile off a barracuda.

  “Daphne can handle the troops. I promised you dinner.” McKay filled a plate for Carly, a rainbow of mixed salad greens. Next came shrimp salsa and asparagus. He lifted another lid. “I didn't order this sweet potato soufflé.”

  “It looked excellent, so I added it to your cart, along with the chocolate eclairs. Enjoy.” The steward whistled softly as he headed to the door.

  McKay studied the steward's back in exasperated amusement.

  “He's got great taste.” Carly took a bite of the soufflé and sighed. “In fact, everything looks delicious. I suppose Daphne can take care of things for a little longer.” She paused over a wedge of avocado. “By the way, do you want to have a look at today's film?” She laughed at the wave of horror that crossed his face.

  “You couldn't pay me enough.”

  She rested a hand on his arm. “That makes your help especially kind, considering how uncomfortable you are at being photographed.”

  “I'm discovering that it's hard to say no to you.” He filled his plate and sat back, the Caribbean a restless shimmer of indigo behind him. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  This was the last question Carly had expected. She coughed and grabbed her wine. By the time her throat was clear, she could answer calmly. “No one in particular.” She tilted her head. “What about you?”

  He studied a piece of escarole. “There have been one or two women.”

  “Past tense?”

  He looked up, unblinking. “Getting personal, Sullivan?”

  “Shouldn't I? You started the twenty questions, so I figure I'm entitled to ask a few of my own.”

  “Fair enough.” He looked out at the sea. “It was bad timing. Bad choices.” He swirled his wine. “Relationships require time, care, and patience, and my work keeps me on the move.”

  He'd surprised her with a thoughtful answer and a hint of regret in his voice. “Tough luck.”

  “If I'd wanted something more, I'd have found a way.” He snagged a slice of mushroom untouched on her plate. “What's your excuse?”