Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  “Call the company that delivered the food,” McKay ordered. “Find out if the driver was a regular man or a fill-in. I'll need his address and current whereabouts.”

  As Archer picked up the phone in the upstairs hall, McKay scowled at the elegant grounds. The garden was filled with birdsong, and roses gleamed under the shelter of the high trees. McKay moved away from Archer and dialed his cell phone.

  Izzy answered immediately. “What's all the activity?”

  “Carly's missing.”

  “Impossible. She hasn't been outside. Only ones moving were the regular staff and a delivery van about seven.”

  “Keep watching.” McKay cut the transmission. Where was she?

  Archer put down the phone. “The driver was a regular man. He claims he saw nothing unusual on the drive. There was a school bus dropping off children and a telephone truck down near the beach road, but nothing else.”

  McKay sprinted back downstairs, gripped by the certainty that she was nearby. The grounds were being monitored and intruders would have been noticed. That left only the house. “Did you actually see the truck being unloaded?” he called.

  “I'm afraid not. It didn't occur to me to watch.” Archer

  turned at the low peal of a cellular phone. “That's coming from the office. I'll answer it.”

  McKay stayed behind, pacing the kitchen and staring at the cooling pot of soup. Carly had been here. What had made her leave? He checked the long pantry, then pulled open drawers and cupboards.

  “No one there, just static.” As Archer spoke from the doorway, the phone in the office rang again.

  McKay raced down the hall and swept the phone off a polished rosewood table. “What?”

  There was only static.

  “Who is this?” he snapped.

  Out of the electronic hum came the low wheeze of labored breathing. “Here. Help …”

  The words vanished into static.

  McKay's hand tightened. “Who is this?”

  “C-cold.” The words were nearly drowned by a metallic whine. “Need you—”

  “I can't hear you. Say again.”

  Suddenly, he knew.

  With a curse, he turned sprinted to the kitchen and saw what he hadn't seen before. Silver wire covered the freezer door handle, twisted tight to lock it securely.

  McKay grabbed a cast-iron pan and slammed one side against the heavy, twisted wire. “Shears,” he called to Archer, who thrust a pair into his hand. “I'm coming, Carly. Hang on,” he shouted tearing at the wire. “Get some blankets, Archer. Then run a bath. Not too hot.”

  Archer left, and McKay continued to hack at the wire. Finally, the metal strands tore free and he lunged into the freezer. Through swirling clouds he saw Carly sitting motionless with a burlap bag over her shoulders and her knees drawn up to her chest. A cell phone was clutched in her rigid fingers and he saw that she had stacked heavy cartons all around her in a vain effort to block the cold. Near her was a second burlap bag, a frozen elbow emerging from the ragged cloth.

  Sinking beside her, McKay draped a blanket over her

  shoulders. Her skin felt unnatural and tight as he pulled her into his arms. “I'm here,” he whispered. “Talk to me, Carly.” His hands tensed when she didn't answer. “I'll cook if you want. I make a fair omelet. Just talk to me, dammit.”

  Her hand moved against his chest. “Hot. Something h-hot.”

  “I'll give you five-alarm hot,” he said raggedly.

  Archer had drawn a bath by the time they got upstairs. McKay stripped off Carly's jeans and jacket and carried her into the tub. She still hadn't opened her eyes and her breathing was labored.

  Holding her tight, he sank into the warm water. “Can you look at me, Carly?”

  “Hurts.”

  McKay raced through the basics of his first-aid training, knowing he had to do something about her eyes. Very gently he laid a wet washcloth over her face. “This should help.” He backed against the side of the huge Jacuzzi and pulled her closer, frowning as shudders raced through her rigid body.

  She began to cry soundlessly, tears trickling down her cheeks where the washcloth had shifted. “Why?” she rasped, her fingers digging into his chest. “Why did they do this?”

  “It doesn't matter. You're safe, and no one will get to you again.” He stroked her damp hair. “I promise you that.”

  Her breath was shaky. “D-don't want to be here. I don't—know who I can trust. Take me somewhere else.” She pulled away the washcloth and squeezed her eyes tight, as if she was afraid to open them.

  “Look at me, Carly.”

  Her eyelids fluttered. She squinted up at him.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “Looking good.”

  “Looking like hell, and we both know it.”

  “Not to me.” He eased a wet strand from her cheek. “Smart move, using the cell phone.”

  “I found it in the shirt. The man—the body,” she said shakily. “The phone was in his pocket. If it hadn't been there—”

  McKay's hands tightened. “Don't think about it now. Just tell me when you want to leave.”

  She drew a slow breath. “Now. I can't stay here.”

  “I know a place with people we can trust.” Thank God for Izzy's plan B, he thought. There was clearly a breach in Inspector St. John's security and from now on, no one but Izzy would know their location.

  “Then let's go.”

  “You've got it.”

  McKay dried her off, then helped her dress and pack. He kept his arm securely around her as he guided her outside into the hall, where Archer was pacing anxiously.

  “She'll be fine.” McKay passed Archer, walking her carefully down the corridor.

  “Thank God.” Archer followed, frowning at Carly's packed bag. “You're leaving?”

  “I'd say that's a stupid question, Archer.”

  The big man didn't speak for a long time. “I guess it was. She's not safe. Not even here, is she?”

  McKay kept walking, his eyes wintry.

  “It wasn't your fault.” Turning, Carly put one hand on Archer's massive shoulder.

  He only shook his head. “I should have noticed sooner. That makes it my fault. Take care of her,” he said tightly to McKay.

  “I'll have her checked out as soon as we get where we're going.”

  “You're not going to share your location?”

  “Under the circumstances I doubt it would be safe. Meanwhile, you'd better phone Inspector St. John,” McKay called from the door, his arm circling Carly's shoulders. “Tell him there's a body in your freezer. I have a feeling it's one of his men who got too close to some answers.”

  McKay took no chances as they left Paradise Cay. He arranged for one of Inspector St. John's men to drive the Triumph out of the estate at dusk, while another man slumped low in the passenger seat. Ten minutes later, a dusty truck belonging to the gardener lumbered down the gravel drive and turned south onto the beach road toward Bridgetown.

  Archer was at the wheel, delighted to make any contribution to Carly's safety. McKay and Carly sat hidden in back, with McKay checking the mirror constantly to see that they weren't followed. When he was finally satisfied that the ruse had worked he motioned for Archer to stop.

  Except for the drone of insects, the road was quiet in the darkness. “I'll take over from here.” McKay opened the passenger door and jumped down. “It's less than a mile back to the fork. You can phone for a ride from the store there.”

  Archer watched McKay take his place at the wheel. When he was ready to close the door, Archer gripped his arm. “Keep her safe,” he said stiffly.

  Then he disappeared into the darkness.

  McKay found the road on the third try.

  The house belonged to an old friend of Izzy's, a man with a security background and unquestionable integrity.

  Most important, he was an outsider who would never be connected with Carly or McKay.

  Following the narrow road, they climbed into the mountains
along the center of the island. Ragged clouds veiled the horizon to the west, blocking the view out to sea. Izzy had said to make a sharp right at the baobab tree, and McKay did just that, passing beneath a huge tree with fantastic, intertwined trunks. Carly said very little, and he didn't bother her with questions, knowing she needed to work through the harrowing experience. She was too smart not to realize that somewhere in St. John's chain of command there was at least one traitor.

  A big fieldstone house came into view, surrounded by crimson bougainvillea.

  “These people are your friends?” It was the first time Carly had spoken since they'd left Paradise Cay.

  “The owner is a friend of a friend. Don't worry, you can trust him without question.”

  “He isn't—someone from Santa Marina?”

  The question cost her, and McKay was sorry for that. “No, he isn't. He doesn't even know the Brandons. He and his family settled here only a few years ago.”

  Carly nodded as two dogs exploded through the grass. A tall man walked behind them, improbably dressed in a dark kilt. He spoke calmly to the dogs, calling them to heel, then reached out to shake hands through the open window of the truck.

  “You would be Ford McKay.” He spoke in the soft burr of the Highlands. “Duncan Campbell. Welcome to Campbell's Hill.”

  “Glad to see you.” McKay crossed around to the passenger door and helped Carly down. “This is Carly Sullivan.”

  “Welcome, Ms. Sullivan. Everything's ready for you. My wife and daughters are on a trip to St. Croix this week, but I've a stew and fresh bread prepared.” He picked up Carly's bag and looked at McKay. “Any problems getting here?”

  “All quiet.”

  The Scotsman nodded, tapping out his pipe on a granite seat at the edge of the drive. “The guest house is just beyond the garden. You'll have a view right down to the sea.”

  “We don't want to disturb you,” Carly said uneasily.

  The Scotsman studied her, one brow raised. “My dear girl, you are my guests, and all I have is yours.” It was a simple statement, but said in a way that brooked no further discussion. “Why don't you go on ahead? Take your time and be comfortable.”

  McKay was fascinated by the race of emotions in Carly's eyes as they walked in silence toward the blue-shingled house. Her steps slowed as they neared the little fence marking the front lawn. “Duncan trained as a medic. I want him to check you out, then have a look at those stitches.”

  “Later.” She ran a hand through her hair, then pushed open the wooden gate and stepped through. “It hits me when I don't expect it. First the cold, then the memory of that horrible body.”

  McKay saw the flash of fear in her eyes, the agonizing doubts about people she knew and loved. Right now one of those people could be trying to kill her. Down the slope the Scotsman ambled into view. Izzy's friend was still fairly young, newly retired from the SAS. He seemed content with his life as an island landowner, happy to turn his back on the shadow world of intelligence. But the habits were intact, McKay saw. As Campbell called his dogs to heel, he continually scanned the area, his body loose, yet well centered, ready for action.

  As usual, Izzy had made a good choice.

  Carly, too, watched their host as he calmed his golden retrievers and scanned the woods with the same quiet intensity she'd seen in McKay. They were from the same world, she realized. Both were dangerous men, well trained in deadly skills.

  The thought did not repel her as it had only hours before. Carly knew those deadly skills might be the only things that could protect her.

  She felt all her old rules and attitudes slip away like sand. Probably that was to be expected in the wake of a brush with death.

  A red ceramic tortoise stood beside the door of the guest house, flanked by a bright blue rabbit. “Do you want to go in?” McKay asked.

  She nodded. “I don't want to see other people. Not yet.” Her voice was dull and flat.

  “Take your time.” He guided her into a room bright with batik pillows and painted rattan furniture. “Ready to eat?”

  “Actually, I'd like to clean up and change.” Maybe a shower would help erase the chill memories.

  “The shower is this way.” McKay pointed beyond the kitchen to a small yard curtained by a high hedge of oleander.

  “There?” Carly stared at the blue tiles set directly into the grass beneath an outdoor shower.

  “It's completely private. No one will bother you here.” He found a towel and draped it over her shoulders. “Not even me,” he said gently.

  “But—” She swallowed hard aware of the pounding of her heart. It was time to face her fear, just as it was time to face her restless longing. Standing at the edge of the porch, she slid her hand into his. “It's everyone else I'm worried about, not you.”

  “You didn't trust me last night.”

  “How could I? Last night taught me how dangerous you can be,” she said softly. “This morning taught me that I need that dangerous strength to stay alive.”

  His hand tightened on hers. “No one will find you here.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Trust me.” He reached behind her to flip on the water. “You'll feel better after you shower. I'll take your suitcase to the bedroom.”

  Carly didn't move. “Don't go.” She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of unspoken questions. “Talk to Duncan later.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I don't want you to go.” She tilted her head, smiling faintly as she tugged his shirt from his jeans. “Shocked?”

  He took a hard breath. “Surprised. Why the change?”

  Carly tugged open his shirt with trembling fingers. “This is the part where you stop talking, McKay. Then you close your eyes and let me drive you mindless with lust.” His shirt opened and she ran her hands over his chest.

  “You're sure?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Sure enough to stake my life on it.” Her hands trembled on his shoulders. “Don't go.”

  Gravely, he removed her jacket and sent it flying. Maybe they could work this out of their systems, and by tomorrow they'd be sane again, logical and back in control.

  Fool, a voice whispered. She still had stitches.

  But there were ways around that, especially if a man was experienced.

  And McKay was definitely experienced. His hellion years had taught him the power of raw lust, and he sensed Carly needed that now to burn away her terror. With the right man she'd slide free, stripped of all fears and limitations.

  The thought made him freeze. The right man?

  He remembered the look on her face after he'd pinned her to the floor. He remembered, too, all the things he'd done in places he'd worked hard to forget. How could a man with no future, a man with blood on his conscience, be right for a lady like Carly?

  “What about love?” he asked harshly.

  “What about it?”

  “You know what I mean. We're not talking about deathless vows of fidelity, Carly. That's got to be clear before things go any further.” He growled the words, testing her resolve, lacerating his own.

  “You mean no white picket fence and 2.5 children? No term life insurance? Are you telling me that I'm going to be a one-night stand, McKay?”

  “I'm telling you there are rules,” he said tightly. “One of mine is that things stay honest. I never make promises I can't keep, Carly.” Only his control kept him from moving, from taking her quickly, blindly.

  “Fine. No white picket fences.” Her head tilted. “Anything else I should know? Blood type and medical history?”

  His nerves were stretched too tight for him to smile. “This isn't a game. Once we start, things will get hot and raw, probably out of control.”

  Her lips curved. “Is that a promise?”

  “Dammit, Carly, this is serious. It's been a while since I've had sex.” He spoke bluntly so that she would harbor no illusions. “That's what it will be. Sex. Not a relationship, not some heavenly melding of s
piritual bliss.”

  “Spiritual bliss can be overrated.” Her smile faded as she looked down at their entwined fingers. “Are you trying to shock me?”

  “Damned right I am.” His fingers clenched on hers. “Am I succeeding?”

  She was too smart not to see the risks. Too proud not to consider them carefully. “Not a chance. I told you before that I was tired of watching the parade go by. Of course, I still have stitches.”

  “There are ways.”

  “I bet you know them all.” Her voice was husky, almost wistful.

  “Probably.” No illusions, he reminded himself.

  “You're a dangerous man, McKay.”

  “I can be.” He didn't look away, didn't soften his tone.

  The words hung between them until Carly let out a ragged breath. “I'm not backing out.”

  “Because you think you owe me?” he asked harshly.

  She stiffened pulling free of his hands. “I don't pay debts with my body If you think that, you're a fool.”

  “I don't,” he said softly. “But I had to be sure.”

  “For a smart man, you can be awfully dumb, McKay.”

  “Then look at me,” he said hoarsely. “Keep looking at me.” The moment his mouth touched hers, he was lost. In an instant, rules faded and reason fled in a wave of need that drove him to claim and possess. She moved her head, changing the angle of their kiss. “You mean like this?”

  He closed his eyes, fighting an urge to take her then and there, without patience or care. Speech beyond him, he simply nodded. No woman had ever stripped away his control so cleanly.

  She touched his jaw. “You've got a scar beneath your eye. How did it happen?”

  He couldn't remember. Something to do with a man with a knife. Choppy seas, noise, and fear.

  The other man had died and McKay had pulled himself out of the water, then vomited up his guts until his ribs burned. It had been his first kill. “A swimming accident,” he muttered.

  She didn't answer, moving her hand to another scar at the side of his neck. “What about this one?”

  McKay felt another kick of flashback. He'd been in a beachfront dive in a drug-rich South American hellhole with two killers rushing him in the darkness.