Going Overboard (15 page)

A
public road, hell. They had definitely been followed.

    At least McKay hadn't persisted in his lame story once she'd confronted him directly. For an insulting routine like that, she might have had to kick him.

Not an easy job with sixteen stitches.

Carly stared at the road behind them and tried to understand why this was happening. Every answer brought her back to Daphne and her father, a powerful public official who happened to be honest—and because of that honesty, a man with an army of enemies.

Her side hurt as they bumped over the gravel. Judging by McKay's grip on the wheel, he was trying to make the ride easy on her.
Two points to the rancher from Wyoming
, she thought, biting down on a wave of pain. Except she was pretty sure he wasn't currently a rancher or anything close. If Hank thought he was a Marine, he couldn't be far off.

Then why the slick lies?

Carly was still grappling for answers when the road curved sharply and the house burst upon them, its pink stucco walls ringed by bougainvillea, hibiscus, and graceful jacaranda trees in full purple flower. Against that explosion of color, ferns crept along curved steps and lined the shaded porches that overlooked the crashing surf of the north coast.

McKay slowed the Triumph and stopped precisely at the edge of the steps.

Not exactly on a dime, but close enough.

“Haven't I seen this house on
Lifestyles of the Rich and Decadent?”
he asked dryly. “Why did Patrick Brandon locate here, instead of Santa Marina?”

“He said Santa Marina was too small for both brothers. He's involved in tourism, fishing, and construction here, and when Barbados became a free nation in 1966, he prospered right along with them. Now he's a pivotal part of the new government.” Carly watched sunlight gild the sweeping balconies. “He works harder than a dozen men and he leaves nothing to chance. He's been very good to his brother, and he's helping Daphne keep her foundation afloat.”

“It sounds like she'll make a difference with the Tradewind Foundation. A lot of women in her position wouldn't make the effort.”

“With Daphne, what you see isn't always what you get. She can curse like a stevedore and drink like a Dane, but when she commits to something it's complete, without limits.”

“A good friend to have.” McKay reached across the gearshift and unsnapped Carly's seat belt, then rounded the car to open the door. “Take it easy.”

“I believe I can manage to get out without fainting dead away.” Despite her bravado, it was getting harder to ignore the stabbing pain in her side, and she was glad to take McKay's arm as they climbed the steps. At the top, they were met by a tall man with mahogany skin, a pristine white jacket, and a spectacularly broken nose in an otherwise aristocratic face.

Carly summoned a smile. “Archer, you haven't aged a day since I last saw you at Santa Marina.”

“Tell that to my stiff back. But first come here and give me a good long hug.”

Carly did just that. “Watch the right side,” she murmured. “It's still a little touchy.”

Archer released her carefully. “There won't be any problems here,” he said. “I'll be taking care of things during
your stay at Paradise Cay.” He glanced at McKay his eyes narrowed. “I believe it's time you introduced me to your friend.”

Carly flushed. “Sorry. This is Ford McKay who's involved with the commercial I'm shooting. Ford meet Archer, who has been with the Brandons since time began. Possibly before, for all I know.”

The men scrutinized each other, shaking hands in utter silence. Carly looked from one to the other. “Am I missing something?” Long seconds passed before Archer cleared his throat and released McKay's hand from a hard grip.

“I'm glad you settled that,” Carly said. “Whatever it was you settled.”

Impassive, Archer took Carly's small satchel and pushed open the front door. As he did a flashbulb snapped and Carly stepped into the foyer to a chorus of cheers. Her crew gathered around her in a ragged line, waving balloons, party hats, and tropical drinks with little paper umbrellas while Nigel Brandon enjoyed the scene from a wing chair. Daphne stood at his side, looking very pleased with herself.

“You put them up to this,” Carly said glaring at Daphne.

“No. I did.” The crowd parted to reveal a tall woman with razor-cut red hair. Tiffany earrings were a sleek counterpoint to her black silk pantsuit.

“Mel?” Carly stared at her boss in shock. “What are you doing in Barbados?”

“Making sure my wunderkind and crew are safe. You look pale. Sixteen stitches, was it?”

“They won't stop me from finishing the project,” Carly insisted.

“Good. Now I want to see our new model.” She pursed her carefully tinted lips and studied McKay. “Hank didn't exaggerate. I believe we're going to make advertising history, my friends.” She held out her hand. “A pleasure,
Mr. McKay. I owe you for protecting Carly and preventing the destruction of our equipment. I don't like being in debt, so tell me how I can repay you. Within reason, of course.”

“I guess the vacation in Bali is out.”

Mel gave a throaty chuckle. “Afraid so. Of course, if our client responds to Carly's finished footage the way I expect him to, our budget will go through the roof.”

He pretended to deliberate. “How about half a million in small, unmarked bills?”

Mel patted his cheek. “I like a dreamer.”

“In that case, I'll settle for Carly having some time off—no faxes, phone calls, or E-mails.”

Mel Kirk brushed a hand across her perfectly cut hair. “Our client is concerned about delays. He doesn't want the competition coming up with a similar campaign in time to air this fall.” Her mouth hardened. “I should be able to iron out any problems when I get back to New York. Carly has as long as she needs, the same for the crew.” She studied one glossy nail. “I'll need you all to be on that cruise ship when it returns to Miami, but we can discuss the details later. Right now I want Carly working only on one thing: getting well. Meanwhile, don't any of you get hauled in drunk and disorderly or you'll be completely on your own. You don't call me Captain Kirk behind my back for nothing.” When the laughter had died down, she waved a little paper umbrella. “It appears I lost the rum punch that went with this.”

Archer appeared balancing a silver tray. “Perhaps you would enjoy some conch chowder to go along with your rum punch. We have tables arranged on the patio and a dessert cart when you're finished. We also have suits available if any of you would care to swim.”

Carly's boss took the arm that Nigel Brandon offered most gallantly. “Now I see why they call this place Paradise. Sunshine, water, and handsome men everywhere.”
She followed Archer toward the patio. “Conch chowder, anyone?”

Daphne and her father were the last to leave. Though the visit had lasted less than an hour and Carly had sat for most of it, it was still an effort to hide her discomfort.

“You're tired.” The sun was slanting low over the trees as McKay leaned against the wooden rail of the veranda, watching Carly carefully.

“Why would I be tired? It's still early.”

“Getting shot and losing blood make most people tired. There's no need to pretend. It's just the two of us here.”

“I never pretend.” But Carly closed her eyes in relief as she sank back onto a lounge chair covered with chintz pillows.

“Stubborn to the bone,” McKay muttered. He held up the cup of chamomile tea Archer had delivered moments before. “Drink it.”

“Why are you giving all the orders?”

A half-smile played across his mouth. “Because I can. You're going to be running below par for a week, Sullivan. I plan to take full advantage.”

“To be arrogant and high-handed?”

“To goad, torment, and manipulate you into some semblance of a healthy lifestyle.”

“I can barely contain my excitement.” She cracked open one eye, sighing as she saw him holding up the tea cup. She drank the rich herbal brew and then sank back in the chaise. “Archer never forgets anything. If you take lime slices in your tea once, he'll still remember it twenty years later.”

“He looks like a man who knows what kind of wine to serve with crème brûlée.” McKay braced one shoulder against the edge of the veranda. “He also looks like someone you don't want to mess with. What happened to his nose?”

Carly chuckled. “He played cricket when he was a teenager. When his team went to London for a tournament, someone commented that he had a girlie face.”

“Probably the last thing the poor fool managed to say before he got a broken jaw.”

“And three missing teeth. Uncle Nigel happened to see the scuffle. He arranged for Archer to be released from jail, then asked him to become his personal assistant.”

“And history was made.”

Carly watched shadows race over the pool. “Archer has gotten Daphne and me out of some tight scrapes.”

“I heard about your cliff climbs. What else did you and Daphne do for excitement?”

Carly shifted as her side began to ache. “I don't know you well enough to go into details.”

“What else do you need to know? My favorite color is green, my favorite ride is a quarter horse, and my favorite beer is Foster's.”

“How nice. That certainly fills in all the gaps.”

Out to sea, a yacht cut cleanly along the horizon, its sails bloodred in the setting sun. “Looks like a fire ship,” McKay murmured.

“What's that?”

“It's an old naval tactic. A ship was set aflame, then sent toward an enemy fleet. The fear value alone was devastating. Fire on a ship was every sailor's nightmare.” He paused. “And still is.”

“You know a lot about the sea,” she mused.

“I was raised on Hemingway and C. S. Forester. Every boy should be.” McKay frowned. “Every girl, too, come to think of it.”

“Are we going to argue feminist theory now?”

“I'm feeling too relaxed to argue.” He grinned. “Unless you want to take the ugly revisionist male point of view.”

“Thanks, but I'll pass.” Carly watched the yacht cut toward the east. “So you enjoyed all those freighters you took?”

“They had their moments.”

“That's all you can say?” Carly rolled her eyes. “This feels like a bad rerun of
Remington Steele
”

“He was a liar. I'm just taciturn.” McKay slanted her a smile. “There's a difference.”

“None that I can see.” Carly shifted again.

“Your side hurting?”

“I'll survive.” But she didn't protest when McKay found a pillow and slid it under her arm. “You don't need to fuss over me.”

“Someone has to. You won't take care of yourself.”

Carly closed her eyes. “Why don't you go away so I can sleep?”

“I'll take you inside first.”

Carly didn't want to think about having his arms around her. That long, sexy body holding her. For some reason, the image short-circuited all her good sense. “I'll stay right here, thanks.”

“You agonize over angles of sunlight and the condensation on a champagne bottle. You remember batteries, light meters, and location details, but you forget to eat. Why?”

She couldn't resist a slight grin. “Because I can.”

But the truth lay deeper.

Carly knew she worked at a fever pace because she had to. When the colors raced in her head and the pictures flowed she couldn't see anything else. In those moments she and her camera became a perfect organic unit.

“Not true. Because I need to,” she said quietly. “Just like my mother.”

She stared at the bougainvillea petals floating in the pool, feeling all the old emotions churn to life.

Hating them. Hating herself for having them. “Let's pretend I didn't say that.”

“I thought you didn't pretend.”

Carly winced moving again. “Let's pretend I didn't

say
that
, either.” She slid a hand over her eyes and thought she heard McKay laugh.

He shifted her pillow slightly and again the pain receded. The man could be insidiously gentle when he wanted to be. If she didn't get away from him soon, she might find herself addicted to his attention.

She frowned as he put a box on the table beside her. “What's this?”

He opened the box and pushed aside the tissue. “A last-minute gift from Daphne. She asked me to give it to you when were alone.” He gave an approving whistle as he produced a delicate column of white lace with tiny satin straps. “Nice choice. As I recall, she also suggested that I help you change.”

“I'll strangle her,” Carly hissed. “I'll do it slowly and painfully.”

“Why?” McKay studied the sweep of nearly transparent lace. “She's definitely onto something here.”

Carly plucked the gown from his fingers, her face aflame. “Then let her wear it.” She pushed stiffly to her feet, trying to ignore the instant burn along her side. “I'm going inside.” She walked stiffly toward the house.

Relief warred with anger as McKay swept her up in his arms. “I can walk,” she said through clenched teeth. In about two days she could.

“Congratulations. Next week we'll work on wind sprints.”

“I could learn to hate you, McKay.”

His hand settled briefly on her cheek. “You're afraid of me for some reason, but you don't hate me.”

Carly closed her eyes as he carried her through the quiet house. “The great swami sees all, knows all.”

“It doesn't take a swami to see that you're uneasy.” There was a steely edge to his voice. “I won't cross the line, if that's what's worrying you.”

Despite all her efforts, her head sank against his chest.

“Why should I believe that?” she asked sleepily. “Why should I trust a stranger?”

“Because you can.”

He carried her into a room with yellow walls and a white bed draped with white gauze curtains. She was too tired to ask or argue, too tired to keep her hands from circling his shoulders, burrowing closer against his warmth.

She was too tired to pretend she didn't hurt, didn't want a shoulder to lean on, just for a while.

“Go to sleep,” he said, setting her gently on the bed. Through the open French doors came the distant crash of the surf and a breeze rich with citrus and roses.

“What about you?”

“I'll be nearby.”