“The usual. No prospects when I had the time, and no time when I had the prospects. Having a demanding career is a wonderful method of birth control,” she said dryly. “Not that I've given any thought to children. Or marriage or anything else.”
“Some people find the time.”
“So I hear.” Carly began stacking plates neatly on the table. “Right now my time is up. I have film and props to organize.”
“What about the eclairs?”
“Tempting, but I'll pass. I've got to get back.” She pointed at the lacy green leaves on McKay's plate. “Don't you know that real men don't eat frisee?”
“So that's what it's called.” He took her silverware.
“I'll do that. Sit down and enjoy your wine.” He finished stacking the silver, then rolled the cart back to the door. When he turned, Carly was right behind him.
“You give fitness lessons and you clean up, too?” She put one hand over her heart. “I just might have to marry you, McKay.” She flushed. “Maybe I should have skipped that last glass of wine. It's going right to my head.”
He lifted the glass from her fingers. “Maybe it isn't the wine.”
“Oh no, I'm not falling into that one.”
McKay bent slowly, intrigued by the light in her eyes. “We all fall sometime, champ.” If she'd been his type, he might have been in danger of falling himself. Since she wasn't anywhere close, he simply enjoyed the sight of her face flushed with color.
Amused, he brushed her lips, savoring the gentle contact. Then he had a strange compulsion to try it again.
She raised her hand to his chest.
He caught it, bringing her palm to his lips and smiling at her faint tremor. The woman had no clue how responsive she was.
Slowly her hands climbed to his chest, and she gave a dreamy sort of sigh. Heat rocked McKay as she moved closer, exploring his mouth.
Suddenly there was no gentleness in what he felt, no logic and no clarity. He wanted that slim, ladylike body quivering beneath him, lost in the same sensual haze that he was fighting. He wanted it absolutely and without question.
Damned odd, considering that she wasn't his type at all.
When he eased away, she sighed, seeking him with her pliant body. It took far more control than he expected not to pull her back into his arms and feast.
“Carly,” he murmured, enchanted by her warm oblivion. “Back to earth, champ.” He whispered the words against her hair simply so he could smell her perfume and feel the soft slide of her body.
There was a definite glow in her cheeks as she stared blankly into space. After a moment, she looked down at his hands circling her wrists, then drew a jerky breath. “I'm going to pretend none of this happened,” she muttered. “It had to be the wine.”
“Put it down to curiosity.” He slid a damp strand of hair off her forehead.
Her brow spiked. “Is curiosity what's going on here?”
For McKay, what was going on was focused lust. Because he wanted badly to haul her close and kiss her again, he took a stiff step backward. “Close enough. We'd better shower, then go.”
“My shower can wait. I need to get back and check on my crew while they're still rational.” She glared down at her exercise attire. “Besides, it could take me an hour to wiggle out of this spandex thing.”
“I'd be more than happy to help you.”
“I'll just bet.”
Smiling faintly, McKay guided her to the door. As he flipped off the light, a clatter echoed through the corridor outside.
Cursing, he pushed Carly behind him, shielding her with his body and locking a hand over her mouth.
Footsteps shuffled up to the door.
McKay pressed Carly flat against the wall.
There was a low click in the darkness, and the door opened slowly. He gave Carly's arm a warning squeeze as a long object emerged.
He slammed one shoulder low, caught the object and twisted it free, then pinned the man who'd been holding it to the floor. “Get the lights,” he ordered.
In the sudden glare of the overhead fluorescents, McKay saw a man wearing a gray uniform with the logo of the cruise line. He was white-haired probably seventy, and clearly terrified.
The object he'd been carrying was a mop.
Water flowed from an overturned bucket near the door, and McKay realized that had been the source of the sound from the hall. He helped the old man to his feet, then dusted off his shoulders. “Sorry,” he said briskly.
The man edged sideways. “Tonight's my cleanup duty here. It's on the schedule. Call and check,” he said anxiously.
McKay straightened the bucket and dropped the mop inside. “No need. I'm sure you're right.” But he intended to have Izzy check the story just the same. “The fault was mine. Anything I can do to help?”
The man pulled his bucket across the room, shaking his head. “Just a simple mistake.”
The moment McKay had escorted Carly out into the corridor, she spun tensely.
“You didn't learn that move in any health club.” Her face was pale. “What's going on?”
“He took me by surprise, that's all.”
“Don't brush me off. I have eyes. Who are you?” She swallowed. “What are you?”
He'd been expecting this. A woman of her intelligence was bound to notice his vigilance sooner or later and demand an explanation. His only surprise was how much he disliked lying to her. “I've worked in some unsettled places. When I hear a loud noise, I drop first and ask questions later.”
“But you didn't drop,” she pointed out tightly. “First you shoved me behind you, then wrestled that man to the floor, all in total darkness. It appears to be something you do a lot.” She crossed her arms. “I'd like an explanation.”
“Nothing to explain. He took me by surprise and I reacted too fast.” He said nothing more as he guided her to the glittering art-deco elevator.
“That's pure rubbish.” Carly pursed her lips as the elevator doors closed. “Lucky for you I'm too tired to argue. But I'll find out, I warn you.”
As soon as they reached her floor, she stalked out of the elevator, the mood of easy friendship shattered.
At her stateroom music drifted through the closed door, nearly drowned by laughter. Carly found her key and opened the door, amazed to see her head cameraman dancing a reckless hula in a red plastic skirt.
Hank smiled guiltily. “Just getting in the mood for tomorrow. You two have a nice date?”
“It wasn't a date,” Carly said firmly. “It was a business meeting.”
“Tell it to the IRS,” someone called out. The Hawaiian music stopped as Daphne appeared with a tray of fruit and cheese.
“One more for the road everybody.” Her eyes widened
as she looked from Carly to McKay. “So you're back. How was your date?”
“It wasn't a date,” Hank said grinning. If he noticed Carly's flush, he was too polite to mention it. Instead, he glanced at his watch. “Okay, people, party's over. We've got a five A.M. departure for Barbados and I want you revved and ready to roll. Let's call it a night.”
The crew members drifted to the door, and McKay followed them, giving Carly a last, appraising look. “You sweat well, Sullivan.”
“Compliments will get you nowhere.” She rested one finger on his chest and tapped lightly. “And my promise stands. You were lying and I'm going to dig the truth out of you.”
Not without a topflight security clearance, she wouldn't. “Happy hunting. Be sure to tell me if you dig up anything really incriminating.”
Daphne waited four seconds, then pounced. “So spill. How does he kiss?”
Carly tried to look affronted. “Are you suggesting I can't spend an hour in a man's company without locking lips?”
“Not with that man, you couldn't. Where did you go?”
Carly stacked dirty coffee cups and carried them to the kitchenette. “The health club. His idea of fun is going one-on-one with a treadmill.”
“He's
certainly not your usual type.”
Carly's amusement faded. “Type?”
“Don't tell me you've forgotten your penchant for practical men. Last year it was the tax lawyer. His idea of romance was outlining a three-year plan to overhaul your stock portfolio.”
“He seemed charming and attentive. I still can't understand it.”
Daphne coughed loudly. Carly suspected it was to hide a snicker.
“He wanted to get his hands on your assets, if you ask me.” Daphne waved a finger. “What you need is a man who won't let you order him around. Someone who will make you sizzle while he gets under your skin.”
“Sounds like a nasty rash.”
“Don't be flippant. It's time you learned to let go.”
“What it is,” Carly said with a glance at her watch, “is time for me to check today's footage, then get some sleep. You too. Early call, remember?”
Daphne gave an expressive shrug. “When I was working in Paris, I'd be on location in full makeup by four, with a ten-hour day in front of me.”
Carly rolled her eyes. “Such terrible torture having to wear exquisite designer gowns and have your hair and face done by the best talent in the business.” Carly frowned as Daphne tucked some papers under her arm. “No last-minute faxes from New York, I hope. If Mel's switching plans, I'm going to have a serious meltdown.”
“No, these are for me. Father again.”
Carly put down the orange she had been peeling. “Uncle Nigel? Nothing's wrong on Santa Marina, I hope?”
“Not with him. It's me he's driving crazy,” Daphne said dryly. “For the last month he's been monitoring every move I make, keeping track of where I'm due and calling if I'm even ten minutes off. When I ask what's wrong, he turns stone faced and says it's perfectly natural for a father to worry about his daughter's safety.”
Carly squeezed Daphne's arm. “You're getting married soon. Sounds to me like he's suffering from separation anxiety. Having someone worry about you isn't such a bad thing.”
Daphne sniffed. “He won't let up. I even think he has me followed,” she said angrily. “That's partly why I jumped at the chance to pinch-hit on your shoot. I actually had to leave him a note and sneak off the island to get here.”
“Not many places safer than a cruise ship,” Carly said cheerfully. “Unless it's the Titanic. He should be thrilled that you're here.”
“Hardly. He keeps blitzing me with messages and asks me to check in with his office three times a day.” Daphne sent Carly a warning look. “Don't think you're safe, either. Now he's demanding every detail of tomorrow's shoot on Barbados.”
Carly strode toward the phone. “I'll call him. There's no reason for him to worry.”
“No, don't. He'll demand that you put me on and then we'll argue.”
“But you can't let him worry this way.”
“He knows I'm here and safe. That will have to do. I'll phone him from Barbados tomorrow, I promise.” Daphne studied the equipment humming on the long table. “Let's see today's film. I want to find out if my imagination is as good as the real thing.”
“He does have an amazing body,” Carly murmured, remembering how McKay looked on the treadmill, holding an effortless stride. “But let's see what the camera says.”
Across the room, Daphne powered up the camcorder plugged into a high-resolution screen. “These are the test shots you made this morning at the pool.” She watched McKay climb out of the water in full, chiseled glory. “Is the man buff or what?”
“He burns up the screen, just the way I knew he would.” Carly scanned the rest of the crowd. “Everyone else seems to disappear. Okay, move forward.” She sat mutely, savoring the sight of McKay cutting through the pool while the volleyball game raged off to the side. “This is where they started to get rowdy.” Abruptly she sat forward. “Wait. Pause and go back.”
She watched the crowd morph backward, then repeat their movements. “There,” she said, pointing to a man in a deck chair.
“The skinny guy with the bad hairpiece?” Daphne
leaned closer to the screen. “That orange Hawaiian shirt really has to go.”
“He seems to pop up everywhere I am. He was watching us before, on the opposite side of the deck. Now he's there in the corner, looking right at me. I'm beginning to feel stalked.”
“The man is just a tourist soaking up some sun. Since we happen to be astoundingly beautiful women, of course he's watching us, too.”
Carly sank into a chair beside Daphne. “I guess you're right. He's gone in this next pan. I must be suffering from post-treadmill trauma.”
“The shots from this afternoon are next.” Daphne crossed her legs, smiling smugly. “I have a feeling they'll be phenomenal.”
Ten minutes later, Carly sank back in her chair, feeling her heart slam.
The footage was unforgettable. McKay in a tuxedo against the dying sun. McKay holding up a glass of champagne to an unseen companion, cool triumph in his eyes. The man was a glory to behold.
“He's incredible.” Daphne's eyes crinkled. “Hank says he's never seen anything close in fifteen years of shooting.”
“I've got a feeling that we 're about to make history,” Carly whispered. But for some reason, the thought left her uneasy.
Nikolai Vronski hated the Americans. Of course, he hated most Russians, too. Humanity in general was tedious, incompetent, and self-indulgent, and Vronski prided himself on being none of those things.
He swept past the lone man sweating in the yacht's converted stateroom. With an impatient glance he scanned the long steel worktables. “What developments?”
The aged Japanese artist turned beneath the bank of bright halogen lights. His hands were scarred from decades of pounding and shredding fibers to make the
highest quality Japanese brush paper. “It is slow work, as I have explained before.”
There was little sense of movement below deck. The boat was perfectly stabilized to protect the expensive equipment that filled the shelves and long tables.
“I did not ask if the work was slow or fast.” Vronski's keen gaze ranged over the gleaming metal trays. “I want results. What have you to show me?”
The Japanese man bowed, shaking his head. “It is still too soon.” He was sweating heavily.
One blow from the Russian's fist sent him staggering to the floor.
Despite the pain, he was wise enough to stay absolutely quiet while Vronski stormed out.
Waves lapped at the white sand beach, while palm trees rustled soothingly. The scene could have been lifted right off a postcard McKay thought.
Too bad it wasn't a real vacation so he could enjoy it.
Beside him, Daphne sighed. “Give me a box of Godiva chocolates, an Andrea Bocelli CD, and I'll be in paradise.” She drew in a hearty breath of sea air and jumped down onto the sand. “Barbados is spectacular, isn't it?”
He vaulted down beside her. “Definitely beats crawling though the mud in an Alabama swamp.”
“Are you from Alabama?”
His mouth quirked. “I don't believe I said that.”
“Secretive, aren't you? Not that it matters. You're rescuing Carly and her shoot. That's all I care about.”
“I still don't see how she's going to get the film from here to New York in time to help.”
Daphne slid her huge bag over one shoulder. “The wonderful world of modern electronics. She sent a digital proof file late yesterday from the ship. A second proof went off by express courier when we docked today. Now, if you could only get her to relax. With the pace she's keeping, she'll end up in a padded cell.”
“What makes you think she'd listen to me?”
Daphne stared at Carly, who was sorting lights and camera equipment in the back of a battered Jeep.
“Something tells me you can be very persuasive when you want to be. You've already managed to get her to exercise—something she's studiously avoided for months.”
McKay tried to hide a grin. “Is this calle
d matchmaking, by any chance?”
“Perish the thought. She'd have my head. I'm just planting a friendly, good-natured suggestion.” Daphne's eyes narrowed. “And if she asks, this conversation never happened.”
“I'll keep it in mind.” McKay shook his head as Carly's assistant trotted away. Today Daphne was wearing skintight blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and diamond earrings, a bizarre combination that somehow worked on her. But her suggestion was pointless. No one could force Carly Sullivan to relax when she was in her professional mode.
And she certainly was today. She'd been sorting, guiding, and worrying since the crew had assembled at dawn. She was on her third list and her fourth cup of coffee and the actual shoot hadn't even begun.
McKay knew the feeling. It came to him every time a transport plane carried him to a jump zone for a mission. The trick was to tap the nervous energy and use it before it had time to eat a hole in your stomach.
Something told him Carly hadn't yet mastered that particular skill.
They'd work on it, he decided.
Meanwhile, she had him decked out in cargo shorts and a splashy Hawaiian shirt. The only way he could look more like a tourist would be if she loaded him down with a set of cameras. He scowled as she waved excitedly from the Jeep, where she was talking with a man in a dark suit.
Suddenly, as he crossed the beach, McKay felt a dead certainty that they were being watched.
The watched sensation crawled along his neck, one of a dozen survival instincts honed over long years of covert missions under deadly conditions. He forced his body to relax as he turned casually, his eyes flicking around him.
By the road, two women in straw hats walked a dog. A man was selling fruit from a wooden cart close to the base of the cliffs. Nothing seemed out of place. Casually, he scanned the cliffs, picking up no sign of movement, then continued across the beach.
Carly gave him a measuring glance. “This is Mr. Charles from the tourist board. He helped to coordinate today's shoot. This is Mr. McKay, our primary actor.” As the two men shook hands, she turned to the beach, looking worried.
McKay followed her gaze. “Something wrong?”
Going Overboard Page 6
