Going Overboard

by Christina Skye

  Carly felt a dizzying burst of intuition. “He's hurt?” she whispered as the wind burned, making her eyes tear.

  Izzy made a sharp, frustrated gesture with one hand. “He was caught in the blast when the last of the C-4 blew. His team called in the chopper to fly him out.”

  “How bad?” she demanded, steeling herself to hear the worst. She knew how dangerous Vronski was. She'd twice witnessed his cruelty, indiscriminate and almost inhuman.

  “Pretty bad,” Izzy said. “They don't know if…”

  Carly clutched at the rail. Her cheeks were stinging with tears as lights flashed overhead. In a burst of noise the helicopter roared above them, then banked and thundered away into the night.

  She waited and prayed and hoped. She paced and worked and cursed. But no letter came and no calls were put through.

  All Carly knew was that Ford was alive and mending.

  Days passed slipping into weeks, then months. Carly finished her cruise project, sublet her apartment in New York, and moved to Santa Marina to be with Daphne.

  Her friend's face was paler than it had been. There were new lines at her mouth, and a new hardness snapped in her eyes. But four months had passed since the kidnapping in Santa Marina and life went on.

  Daphne's stomach was a lovely curve of growing life beneath her neat white linen sundress. With the efficiency born of loyalty, workers had restored the house to all its beauty after the explosive destruction of one wing. Now hibiscus petals dotted the flagstone patio and floated in the large, free-form swimming pool. Fortunately, the blast had been on the opposite side of the house from the garden, and Archer's roses had been nursed back to their full glory.

  Santa Marina would survive, and so would they, Carly thought. But with each day of waiting for word from Ford each day of silence as no message came, her hope began to fade.

  She shoved away Archer's artful fruit salad untouched, and studied the shimmering water in the pool instead absently noting the hibiscus blossoms with a photographer's sharp eye. It might make an interesting project to capture the play of light and shadow over iridescent blue water and drifting red petals.

  But the water made her think of sunlight on a man's strong shoulders and shadows playing across a chiseled face, and her heart broke again, just as it had every day for the last four months.

  No commitments, she had insisted. Stubborn and blind, she hadn't seen that she was not the cold perfectionist her mother had been. She had learned the value of close friendships and camaraderie.

  Now she also knew the bittersweet desperation of love.

  Apparently, McKay didn't.

  “Hell.” She pushed away the photographs, trying to block out the rest of her memories.

  Three of Vronski's men had been recovered alive from the maelstrom at the Brandon estate, and under intense questioning they had revealed the full scope of Vronski's international counterfeiting plan. Aimee Fiorento had run afoul of that plan when she demanded more money for the information she was providing Vronski's contact. As a result, she had been drowned in the ship's pool.

  A chair creaked. “Did you say something, Carly?”

  “No.”

  “Finished with your work?”

  As finished as she'd ever be. “Just about.”

  “Then take a break and come over here. I need some help.”

  Carly turned, instantly worried. “Is something wrong?”

  Daphne's face was composed, but she looked tired, and Carly doubted that she had slept well. David's betrayal and his death had taken their toll. His attempt to protect Daphne before his death had only left her feeling more miserable and somehow responsible. Carly had been up enough nights pacing until dawn to notice that the light was usually on beneath Daphne's door.

  Damn men, anyway.

  She stood beside Daphne's comfortable lounge chair. “Is it the baby? Are you having early contractions?”

  “Heavens, I've got a full three months yet. No, I want your opinion on this maternity dress.” She tapped the page of a glossy magazine. “Will it make me look like an emerging nation or simply a very rounded mother-to-be?”

  “A stunning mother-to-be,” Carly corrected dying a little more as she looked at the radiant model and harbored her own anxious thoughts about the child she carried inside her, a miracle she had never expected.

  Daphne's fingers slid into hers and tightened. “You're going to have to tell him,” she said. “He needs to know.”

  Carly frowned and pulled away. “I've tried to reach him. I've asked every contact I know, along with most of Uncle Nigel's.” She took an angry breath. “He's alive, we know that much. If he doesn't answer my messages, it must mean he doesn't want to be found. Not by me, at least.”

  “You don't know that for certain.”

  “I don't know anything for certain,” Carly shot back. Then her face softened. “Correction. I know that I want this baby. Absolutely and without reservations.”

  “Then eating would be a good idea,” Daphne said sternly as Archer appeared with two plates of exquisite seafood salad. “Starting right now.”

  “I'll have something later.” Carly brushed the slightly convex curve of her stomach. “Things are still churning inside, I'm afraid.”

  “It will pass.” Daphne spoke with the solid conviction of someone who had just been through the same ordeal. “Drink some juice and sit in the rocker and relax for once.”

  Archer frowned down at Carly's untouched plate.

  “Miss Daphne's right. You sit and finish this orange juice.”

  Carly smiled, unable to withstand the gentle tyranny of people so dear to her.

  Archer nodded in satisfaction when she was finished. “Now then, I've brought the small television out to the table. There's to be a news story on the Tradewind Foundation.”

  After a short introduction, Daphne's beautiful, composed face appeared on the screen as she detailed new plans for a shipboard medical center that would cruise around Santa Marina and its neighboring islands.

  “Lord, I do look like a blimp,” Daphne muttered, rolling her eyes.

  “Nonsense, you look happy and vital and very lovely,” Archer said briskly, well used to her complaints. “Hush, so we can listen.”

  After a round of questions about the foundation, the reporter asked Daphne about her father, who was working on corporate support for upgrading elementary-schools on Santa Marina. The interview ended with a beautifully executed shot of Santa Marina's busy harbor area.

  Before anyone could move, a different image filled the screen.

  Carly watched, frozen, as a man's face appeared silhouetted against a tropical sunset as he raised a crystal champagne glass. His dark hair was ruffled by the wind and his muscular shoulders were guaranteed to stir a woman's dreams.

  Just as she had been dreaming for four long months.

  Archer sprang forward and changed the channel, but tears were already burning in Carly's eyes. She rose to her feet as a low, overdubbed voice whispered “We have your dream.”

  She swallowed a knot of pain and brushed past the

  table, sending a stack of photos to the flagstones as she walked blindly to her room.

  Knowing that even there she would see his face.

  “There must be something we can do,” Archer said watching Carly walk away.

  “You're damned right there is.” Without a qualm at invading her friend's privacy, Daphne dug angrily through Carly's briefcase and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, her expression determined as she picked up the phone.

  “I need to speak to McKay,” she snapped as Izzy answered the private number he'd given Carly months before. “That's right, McKay,” she continued ruthlessly. “Commander McKay, U.S. Navy SEAL, and don't give me any more of your lame excuses.”

  “I already told you he's alive and well,” Izzy said guardedly.

  “And not a damned thing beyond. Where is he?”

  “I can't answer that.”

  “Then tell me why h
e hasn't phoned Carly yet.”

  Izzy drew an audible breath but said nothing.

  “She needs him,” Daphne said. “She's too proud to tell you that, but I'm not. Tell him to call her.”

  “I'm afraid I can't do that. It's his choice, not mine.”

  “Tell that to the woman who loves him. And tell that to his child.” Daphne slammed down the phone, only to hear it ring a moment later. “Yeah, that's exactly what I said. A child. Ford's child. Carly is pregnant.”

  “What could possibly be taking so long?” Carly paced restlessly, her hands in the pockets of the loose linen tunic she wore over black leggings. Daphne had been experiencing some unusual pains and her doctor in Santa Marina had referred her to a specialist in Florida for a

  full array of tests, just to be certain nothing was overlooked.

  Carly and Nigel Brandon had been waiting in the crowded hospital for two hours when a door swung open and Daphne appeared, smiling and radiant.

  “What did they say?” Carly demanded.

  “It will be a few hours yet.” Daphne exchanged a quick glance with her father. “While we're waiting for the results, let's go for a walk.” She took Carly's arm. “I could do with something to drink.”

  “There's no need for you to go,” Carly said immediately. “I'll get it.”

  “The doctor said moderate exercise was the best thing for me, so stop trying to turn me into some kind of pathetic invalid.” She started down the corridor. “See you in a few minutes,” she called to her father, who smiled broadly as soon as they turned a corner.

  Near the end of the hall, Daphne stopped abruptly.

  “What's wrong? More pain?”

  “No, this is about you.” Daphne opened the door to a waiting room and gently pushed Carly forward. “In you go.”

  “Me? What do you mean?”

  “Since you were going to be here anyway, I made an appointment for you to have an ultrasound. The technician is waiting for you.”

  “But—”

  A technician approached, clipboard in hand, rattling off questions before Carly could protest further, and Daphne took advantage of the distraction to slip back outside. She was joined a few moments later by Izzy, who looked devastatingly handsome in a gray polo shirt and jeans.

  Daphne raised one hand. “High five,” she murmured. After a resounding slap, she checked her watch. “Should be anytime now.”

  Izzy spoke quietly into a walkie-talkie he took from his pocket. “Situation report?”

  Static crackled, then a voice responded. “Target in sight, sir. ETA 1140 hours.”

  “Roger,” Izzy said thumbing off his receiver. “Time to disappear.” He guided Daphne out of sight into a storage room across the hall.

  Even as the door closed behind her, McKay appeared in the corridor, balanced on a cast from foot to lower thigh. A scar ran across his jaw and disappeared beneath the collar of his white naval uniform.

  Izzy saw the strain in his eyes and remembered his first sight of McKay after the C-4 had sent him flying. A lung had been punctured and more than a few bones had shattered as he'd been flung into the air and slammed back to earth. He'd had a torturous crawl back to health, and only Izzy knew how much pain still haunted him. SEAL to the end he had defied the odds against a full recovery and rejected the potent pain medications after three weeks, claiming that the pain helped him concentrate on all the places he had to nurse back to health.

  His face was thinner, almost stark, Izzy noted as McKay maneuvered along with fierce concentration. He'd grappled with more than physical pain in the last four months. His extensive wounds meant that his days of combat field assignments were over, and he had been recommended for a desk job at a primary SEAL base in Virginia, overseeing operations. Vronski's final act of destruction had yanked Ford out of the life he had carefully planned and the career he had single-mindedly pursued for over a decade.

  Izzy knew he worried about how much mobility he would regain in his right knee and whether he could make the transition to being a desk jockey.

  Or if he even wanted to.

  Now he was about to confront another change— whether he liked it or not.

  If he refused to marry the woman carrying his child then Carolina Sullivan had a right to hear that from the horse's mouth and not over the telephone.

  Horse's ass was more like it. But Izzy was betting on the lady to cut through McKay's intractable wall of pride.

  “You're late, Commander,” Izzy drawled. “But then what should I expect from a man who refused to show up for the nice funeral Vronski had planned for him? How's the knee?”

  “I've already signed us up for a week of black diamond snowboarding in Vail,” McKay shot back. “I'm going to whip you good.” Only the set of his jaw betrayed his concentration as he made his way past a cart loaded with meals and cutlery.

  “Dream on.” Izzy resisted an urge to move the cart out of McKay's way. He knew the gesture would meet with a silent glare. As stubborn as he was proud, the SEAL refused any special treatment.

  “Where's the party taking place?”

  Izzy ran his tongue across his teeth. “Right down the hall.”

  It had required an intricate web of deception to summon McKay from the naval hospital in central Florida, but Izzy had felt no compunction in fabricating a story about a mutual friend who had been badly hurt in a training exercise in Puerto Rico.

  McKay stared at the door down the hall. “Hamilton's in there? Are they doing some kind of test?”

  “He should be done any minute. Why don't you go in and surprise him?” Izzy opened the door, all innocence as he watched McKay shuffle inside to the reception desk, where he was guided to a smaller examining room, just as Izzy and Daphne had arranged beforehand. Slowly, he approached the door in question and peered through the glass.

  McKay's lips tightened. He seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  He rubbed his eyes hard.

  Then his hand opened, pressed tightly to the glass.

  Carly lay restlessly on a gray examining table, her linen tunic hiked up above her stomach. A smiling technician was sliding goo over Carly's skin while keeping up an unbroken string of comments about the Caribbean cruise she planned for the following week. Without a pause, the woman placed a small scanner on Carly's stomach and began moving it slowly.

  “Look at the screen on the wall. Let's see what we have here.”

  Dry-mouthed and breathless, Carly watched the incredible evidence of the life growing within her. Would she see delicate feet? A tiny face?

  The nurse moved the probe sideways, expertly working the controls of the ultrasound scanner.

  Carly had asked not to be told the gender. Technology was wonderful, but she preferred that secret to remain until the actual delivery.

  Fuzzy black-and-white images shifted and spun on the monitor. The tech stopped the probe and grinned broadly. “There's a foot, right at three o'clock. One hand at eleven-thirty.”

  Carly squinted hard trying to see if the white outlines were blotches or tiny fingers.

  “Let's take a closer look,” the tech said. “Especially over here to the left. I want to get some measurements.”

  As the door opened, Carly turned her head and looked up, expecting to see Daphne.

  Her heart plunged into free fall. She blinked, half convinced this was another full-color daydream like the others that had plagued her over the last four months.

  A man in a dazzling white uniform stood staring back at her, his mouth set, his gaze fixed on her face.

  “McKay?” Her voice shook. She couldn't seem to breathe.

  “Right here,” he rasped, looking fairly shaken himself. He was paler now, his face more angular, and Carly saw that he had lost weight.

  He stared at the technician, then up at the monitor with a look of awe. “A baby,” he whispered, a universe of shock and wonder in the word.

  “Is that why you're here?” Carly asked, her hand rising toward his face, then d
ropping back to the table. She wanted desperately to touch him but knew that her control was too fragile to risk it.

  McKay didn't seem to notice as he watched the screen raptly. “Here?” he repeated, distracted. “Izzy told me an old SEAL buddy had been hurt in a training exercise. That's why I came.” He laughed tightly. “I'm going to have to murder that man.”

  Right after I finish murdering Daphne, Carly vowed. “This isn't right,” she whispered. “They shouldn't have brought you here like this, because of a trick.” She was awash in conflicting emotions, and the worst of them was pain.

  He hadn't come to explain himself. It was strictly a cold case of deception that had brought him to her side.

  Her heart ached. Carly wasn't about to bring the child into this, at least not until he'd come up with some reason for his callous indifference to her over the last four months.

  “No, they shouldn't have used a trick,” he agreed, his gaze skimming her stomach, then fixing on her face. “The hard fact is, they shouldn't have needed a trick to

  get me here. But I can't say I'm not grateful. Maybe I needed a good swift kick in the behind.” He nodded toward the screen. “I think this qualifies.”

  The technician watched McKay curiously. “Shall I go on, Ms. Sullivan?”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” McKay countered flatly. “Is that the head? Is he up or down? Is he normal?”

  “He or she,” the woman answered. “Ms. Sullivan has requested that the gender remain undisclosed. And at a first reading things appear to be normal. Of course, we don't always see—”

  McKay didn't wait for her to finish. “Sweet Holy heaven, a baby,” he whispered. “How old?” he asked Carly.

  “A little over four months.”

  “I didn't know.”

  “Of course you didn't know. You didn't return my calls. You didn't give any sign of interest or concern.”

  McKay's body tensed. “I was damned well concerned. I knew you had called.” He shook his head and glanced down at the cast, the crutches. “I couldn't call at first. After that I didn't know if I should.”

  Carly refused to let her anger melt in a wave of tenderness at his obvious injuries. The future had to be discussed and she had to stay hard and focused to do that. “You're not a man given to indecision, McKay,” she said in a monotone. “I can't believe the only problem was your wounds. After all, people can still punch in a phone number in spite of a leg cast.”