Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  “The beach was supposed to be closed today. I don't like having to shoot around visitors.”

  “Only a few are here,” the tourist official protested. “And the man who was to put up the signs had a puncture on his way from Bridgetown. I am making some calls, but it is difficult to close the beach now.” He trotted off to his car, cell phone in hand.

  “I hate surprises.” Carly drew a long breath, then brightened. “You look wonderful. You'll start a rage for flowered shirts.”

  “My secret ambition in life.” McKay tried not to fidget as she opened one more button at his collar and smoothed the bright cotton lapels.

  “I don't know how you do it, but even in these clothes you look dangerous.”

  McKay ignored the question in her voice as he pulled the heavy equipment bag out of her hands and slung it over his shoulder. “After you.”

  She pointed up the beach, where spray shimmered over a single rugged boulder. “That's where we're shooting.”

  The two women with the dog strolled past and smiled. The beach vendor cut up mangoes. Just another quiet day in paradise.

  Except McKay knew that every paradise had its dark side. He was glad that Izzy had wrangled a free day and was somewhere nearby, silent and invisible backup, which was the best kind.

  “The lighting looks just about perfect.” As Carly spoke, something flashed on the hillside behind her, once and then again.

  McKay kept his face impassive as he tracked a blur of red up through the trees. To buy time, he caught Carly's hand while he studied the slope behind her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making you slow down,” he lied smoothly. “If you keep charging around in this heat, you'll crash before the shoot is done.”

  She tilted her head. “You know a lot about heat and the tropics, do you?”

  “Enough.”

  McKay was a patient man when circumstances required it. He fingered the silver pendant at her neck, tracing the whimsical curve of stars suspended by tiny silver chains. “Nice work.”

  Color touched her cheeks. “Too expensive, but I couldn't resist. The artist is M. E. Kincade.”

  “Never heard of him.” He twirled the stars slowly, noting that there was no more movement from the trees.

  “Her. She's an American jeweler based in Scotland. Now maybe you'll tell me why you're pretending to be so interested in my necklace when we both know you couldn't care less about mixed metals.”

  “To slow you down.” He gave her a cool smile. “And to give myself the pleasure of touching you.”

  “Forget the charm, McKay. I saw you watching the trees behind me.”

  She was more observant than he'd realized. He lifted her pendant, tracing the delicate bits of silver. “Maybe I wanted to wish on these stars of yours.”

  Her eyes were frankly skeptical. “You're hiding something, and I don't like it.” She pulled away, tugging primly at her shirt. “Can we get to work?”

  Behind her a dusty bus lumbered around a curve and came to a shuddering halt. Seconds later waves of noisy schoolchildren flooded onto the beach.

  Carly gasped. “Can you believe this? Everything was arranged. This beach was supposed to be closed today.”

  “Looks like someone forgot to tell the kids,” he said dryly.

  “I can't possibly shoot here now.” Carly stared at the darting children, a hand pressed against her stomach.

  McKay watched her fingers flatten. “Steady. We'll work something out. Let's go corner your friend from the tourist bureau and check out options.”

  Her face was pale in spite of the heat. “I need a minute. Just a minute.” She closed her eyes and dragged in a breath.

  McKay rested his hand on hers where it lay against her stomach. “How long has it been hurting?”

  “About five minutes. Since the school buses arrived.”

  “No,” he said patiently. “I meant how long ago did your stomach problems begin?”

  Her eyes snapped open. “What do you mean? What makes you think—”

  “You're sheet-white.” He caught her wrist and shook his head. “Your pulse isn't the steadiest. All in all, I'd say you're steering yourself toward an ulcer.”

  Carly's face closed down tight. “I appreciate your concern, but you're wrong.” She pulled away and started up the beach. “And I don't have time to discuss it.”

  More children thronged the sand as McKay charged after her, scanning for possible threats. By the time he caught up, Carly was arguing with the official from the tourist board while Daphne tried to cut in.

  “Just listen to me,” she said sharply. When silence descended she nodded briskly. “That's better. I know an incredible spot up the northeast coast, complete with cliffs and a waterfall. I'll have to make some calls, but I think I can arrange for us to use it for a few hours. The owner is an old friend of my father's.”

  “How far away?” Carly demanded. “We don't have any extra time in the schedule.”

  “About thirty minutes should do it. Why don't we go to the inn up the road while I contact the owner?”

  “I'll take anything, so long as it's quiet.” Carly moved restlessly from foot to foot. “The waterfall sounds good. We could work that into a dramatic background pan. Let's try it.”

  McKay watched her stride toward the crew gathered around their battered Jeep. Like Daphne, he was beginning to wonder how long she could keep up this pace.

  “Carly, wait.”

  She just kept walking, head down, deep in thought as she fingered the camera hanging around her neck. McKay cursed as he saw one of the school buses shudder into reverse and lumber over a row of old tire tracks filled with water from a recent storm.

  But Carly didn't see.

  He shouted again, sprinting forward and jerking her back with inches to spare as water and sand flew up from the big tires, drenching her face and shirt. Only her quick reflex in cradling her camera saved it.

  “Wake up, dammit. You almost walked into that bus.”

  She hugged her camera protectively. “I saw it.”

  “Sure you did.” McKay took her arm firmly. “Come on. I'll walk you to the Jeep.”

  Carly glared at him. “I don't need a keeper.”

  “Don't you?” He kept his voice low, audible only to her. “You don't eat and you don't slow down. You push yourself to the very edge. I'd say a keeper is exactly what you need.” Concern had him itching to pull her close and shake her.

  Color swirled into her face. She started to speak, then closed her eyes. “I do push myself.” There was desperation in her eyes when they opened. “A job like this doesn't come often, and if I fumble now, I may never get another chance. I need you, McKay. You're magic on film. I've never seen anything like it.” She managed a partial smile. “So don't tell me you're backing out, or I'll have to shoot you.”

  “I'm not backing out,” he said tightly. “But when we get to the inn, you're going to eat something. And you're coming with me in the Jeep when we drive to this waterfall of Daphne's. No one else, understand? While I drive, you're going to rest. Not fidget, not plan, not worry or issue orders.”

  Her first response was an angry protest. Then she closed her eyes and sighed. “Okay Sure, whatever.”

  He motioned to one of the crew, who gunned the Jeep toward them over the sand.

  “Did you find it?” she asked softly.

  “Find what?”

  “Whatever you were looking for up on the cliffs. I watch people, McKay. I see things. It's my job, remember?”

  He kept his face expressionless, annoyed that once again she had noticed too much. It seemed her inattention was only for herself. “You must have sand in your eyes.”

  The Jeep careened to a noisy halt. McKay helped Carly climb in, then turned weight centered, hands freed for action. He scanned the cliffs and the narrow road below. Dogs barked and children shouted, but no one appeared to be interested in Carly and her crew. Nothing at all seemed out of place.

 
; So why had the stab of warning returned keener than ever?

  Carly was pacing the upper bedroom at the inn even before Daphne began to dial. “How do we know the owner will agree? And if he does, will the location be good enough?”

  “Trust me, you'll love it.” Daphne motioned sharply. “It's ringing.”

  Carly tapped her fingers on a rattan table. “Why doesn't he answer? Maybe he's—”

  Daphne straightened. “This is Daphne Brandon calling for Marcel. Is he available?”

  Carly's tapping grew louder.

  “I see. Could you have him ring me back when he finishes his meeting? It's quite important.” She rattled off the number at the inn, then hung up. “He should be finished in ten minutes.” She frowned at Carly. “Stop fidgeting.”

  “If I don't fidget, I'll scream.” Carly glanced at her watch, fixing the time for the return call. “Maybe I should try to find someplace else while we wait. Or maybe I should—”

  Daphne pointed toward a deep chair by the window. “Sit. Marcel will come through. He's one of my father's oldest friends.”

  “We've barely got eight hours of daylight left. When is he going to call?”

  There was a knock at the door, and Daphne strode across to open it before Carly could move. “Perfect,” she said, inspecting the tray carried by a young man in a bright cotton shirt. After she'd paid him and closed the door, she handed a plate to Carly. “Fruit. Soup. Tea sandwiches and conch fritters. Eat.”

  “But I'm not—”

  Daphne fixed her with a iron stare. “Eat every scrap or I won't answer the phone when Marcel rings. You'll be on your own.”

  Carly snorted. “You and McKay should pair up. He pulled the same blackmail routine on me outside.”

  “I'm liking the man more every second.” Daphne looked at her soberly. “Do you think I don't notice how you work yourself to a lather, then forget to eat? Do you think you're hiding how you clutch at your stomach and wince.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Like hell. This is Daphne you're talking to, remember? I know all your tricks, and I've tried to keep quiet while you charge around at a killing pace, but you're frightening me. We've both lost people close to us.” She took a harsh breath. “I couldn't bear to lose you. I couldn't.”

  Carly's anger died in her throat as Daphne stormed to the window. For ten years they had been more than friends, more than sisters. Carly cursed herself for not seeing beneath Daphne's flippant cover to the concern beneath. “Round one to you. Now tell me what else is bothering you.”

  “For starters, Father. When he isn't tracking me obsessively, he's sequestered with his top advisers. Something is going on, I know it, but when I ask, he brushes all my questions aside.” Daphne gave a dry laugh. “Then there's my amazing invisible fiancé.”

  Carly stiffened. “When I saw David last winter he looked fine.”

  “Oh, he's thriving. I just can't get him to thrive on my side of the ocean. He's in Switzerland or Paris three weeks out of four, and even when he's with me in Santa Marina, he's juggling some currency deal or other. I'd like to plan our wedding, but we can't find a date because his schedule is always changing. It's starting to be tiresome.”

  More than tiresome, Carly thought. Any man who couldn't clear his appointment book for his own wedding probably didn't want to get married.

  “And in the middle of all this chaos,” Daphne stormed on, “here I am, determined to be careful and practical. To be solid, for once, and I'm terrified I'll fall flat on my face. I'm warning you, if something happens to you, I'm going to fly to Madagascar, check into a hotel, and have a mental breakdown.” She turned, her face streaked with tears. “Go on, laugh.”

  Carly fought a wave of self-recrimination. “You should have told me what was happening. I'd have come immediately.”

  “I don't want you worrying. I just can't bear to see you driving yourself, always restless, always pushing to be perfect. Just like—”

  Daphne stopped looking shaken.

  “Just like my mother.” Carly finished the sentence quietly. Nothing could take the sting from the words or the dark memories that followed. “She was always chasing the next sunset in Crete or tiger hunt in India. She wasn't ever satisfied and she couldn't ever stay.” She laughed bitterly. “No matter how much I needed her to.”

  Daphne's face was pale. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

  “Why should it hurt? It's the simple truth: blood always runs true.”

  “You're not like her. You care. It shows in every piece of film you take. It's not an abstraction or a game for you, not the way it was for her.”

  Carly shook her head. “I wish I could be certain of that. I'm hungry for the pictures, too. When I'm riding that flow of colors, I forget everything else. That makes me just as bad as she was because I hurt the ones I love, too.”

  Daphne sat beside her, on the arm of the chair. “We all hurt the people we love. Sometime it's for good reason, sometimes for bad. I think it's called the human condition.” She gave a laugh that wasn't quite steady. “The very fact that this is worrying you, eating at you, means you can't be like her.”

  The phone rang, startling them both.

  “And this conversation is nowhere near being over. Understood?”

  As Carly nodded, Daphne swept up the receiver. Instantly all her calm and polish were there again, firmly in place, her hurts and anxieties pushed deep.

  Carly watched in amused admiration as she charmed and cajoled her father's old friend. No one could say no to Daphne for long.

  “I'm so happy. I'm only sorry you won't be able to drop by while we're there. It's been too long, Marcel.”

  Daphne was nodding, giving a dramatic thumbs-up, as she hung up. “All set. Marcel's always a dear. They're just clearing a fallen tree from a recent storm, but they'll be done in an hour.” She frowned at Carly's half-eaten lunch. “Finish that or I'm going to get nasty.”

  Carly wolfed down a sandwich, then jammed a banana in her pocket. “Now can we go?”

  Daphne sighed in exasperation. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

  “No, my camera's right here. I've got extra batteries in the Jeep.”

  “You've also got sand all over your shirt and dirt crusted on your legs.”

  “Oh, that.” Carly looked down and shrugged. “It can wait.”

  “You're selling dreams and capturing beauty, yet you can't take five minutes to pull your own image together?”

  Carly frowned, scrubbing at her leg. “See, it's gone already. Almost. Partly.” She caught her breath as a clean shirt flew at her, disgorged from Daphne's huge leather bag, a mainstay of her modeling days. Even now it was always full of scarves, makeup, and jewelry.

  “Go change. The blue linen will set off your eyes. You've got three minutes, then I'm sending the cavalry in after you.” Daphne's lips curved. “Or maybe I'll just send McKay. Something tells me he's better than any cavalry.”

  McKay scowled at his watch. How much time could two women spend making calls, brushing their hair, and changing clothes—or whatever they were doing?

  He glanced over at the inn's small bar. Noisy and full of tourists, he noted sourly. Despite his careful scrutiny, he had seen no one move toward the rear corridor that led to the stairs. Carly was safe, along with her friend. But there was no room for error, and that meant not taking chances, especially when his instinct warned of trouble.

  When the third passing tourist bumped him in the elbow, McKay carried his untouched drink out to the veranda, choosing a seat that allowed him an unobstructed view of the rear stairway.

  He hadn't seen Izzy, but he knew he was nearby. He was also certain that Brandon had a handpicked crew watching Daphne. He wished he knew their faces.

  “Busy place today.”

  McKay frowned at a stocky man leaning against the porch rail. “Appears that way.”

  “You new on the island?”

  “I heard this was the best pl
ace for a quiet drink.” Four more tourists in floral shirts moved past him, jostling his arm as they headed for the bar.

  “Your information was wrong. The Grey Parrot is always crowded.”

  McKay sat back, measuring the speaker. Mid- to late forties, all solid muscle. There was a holstered weapon beneath the right arm of his loose print shirt. “What about you?”

  “I come here whenever I can. No one makes a royal punch better than this.” He raised his drink, which looked untouched.

  McKay's gaze snapped to the garden as a second man appeared. He too wore a loose shirt, probably to conceal a weapon.

  McKay slid his glass onto a nearby table, prepared for action.

  The stranger's smile was casual, but his eyes were cold. “Are you McKay?”

  “I could be.”

  The man moved closer. “I think you're the officer we were told to expect, the one sent to protect Miss Sullivan.”

  McKay kept his face expressionless. “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Santa Marina police.” The man held out a hand. “Malcolm St. John, acting director, at your service.”

  McKay didn't shake. “You have a badge to match that gun you're carrying?”

  He handed over a stamped photo ID, and McKay examined it carefully, then tossed it back. “Everything appears in order.” He sat back and steepled his fingers. “How's the fishing off Paradise Cove this time of year?”

  “Not many tuna left. You'd be better off farther east.”

  McKay nodded. The code words had been passed and answered. Both men relaxed, but only fractionally.

  “I'm McKay. If anyone asks, I'm here strictly as an actor.”

  “Of course. An actor.” The officer ran his tongue over his teeth. “Any problems so far?”

  “All quiet. What about your end?”

  “The governor has received several more threats directed at his family, and we're still narrowing the possibilities. Any thoughts on that?”

  McKay scanned the quiet staircase. “Until this thing is over, you and the governor would be wise to be suspicious of everyone—all his business partners, all his political colleagues, and all his enemies.”