Going Overboard (17 page)

His body tightened at the thought of Carly turning to putty against him. “Daphne doesn't mince words.”

“I think she's right. I should do something reckless for a change. Something dangerous.”

McKay decided that the idea of Carly turning to putty with anyone but him was unthinkable.

“Want to give me some pointers?”

“Is that another offer? I wouldn't want to misunderstand you again.”

“You mean me and you? Any idiot could see I'm way

below
your
skill level. Why would you waste your time on me?”

“I can't imagine,” he said dryly.

“I meant for you to tell me where to start, what qualities to look for in a man.” She frowned. “Just hypotheti-cally.”

“Hypothetically,” he repeated hoarsely. “Here's rule number one. If you can consider a man hypothetically, he's the wrong one.”

“Why?”

“Because you don't take a hypothetical man to bed with you. You take a flesh-and-blood person with memories, needs, and an agenda.” He laid her gently in the center of her bed and sat beside her, cursing the race of his pulse, cursing the heated trend of his thoughts. How had he gotten into this damned discussion?

Her tongue slid over her mouth, leaving her lips gleaming. “I'll keep that in mind. Anything else I should know?”

At the thought of her locked against a stranger, McKay's hands fisted.

“Something wrong?”

“Not a thing.” Odd but he couldn't drive away the awful image of Carly with another man. He opened his hand and rubbed his chest, dimly aware of a pain that wouldn't go away.

Satin pillows, linen sheets, and white gauze curtains framed her body as a soft breeze drifted in through the French doors, carrying the low whisper of the surf. He stared at her tumbled hair, her pale skin, her soft mouth, picking every word with care. “Here's rule number two. Choose a man with experience, so he will take the time to do things right. Roses on your pillow, champagne in the moonlight. Kisses that drive you both up for air.”

Carly shrugged. “It's not going to happen. Everyone's too busy. Too self-absorbed and upwardly mobile,” she said wistfully.

“The right man would make it happen.” McKay found

himself gripping the bedpost, mainly to keep from touching her. The tension moved, knotting at his groin. Suddenly he was far too aware of her breath, her skin, her perfume. “The right man would forget agendas and business and everything else while you turned each other inside out.”

Her eyes darkened in the twilight. “Are we still being hypothetical here?”

His fingers tightened. He realized her robe had fallen from her shoulders. Beneath it she wore the lace gown Daphne had given her, its ivory fabric molding her breasts and making her skin gleam.

There was nothing remotely hypothetical about the sudden, hammering desire he felt when he looked at her. If he wasn't careful, he'd be shredding her gown and exploring all those ladylike curves.

“Sure we are,” he said gruffly. “Absolutely.” For a lie, it came out surprisingly well. Muttering a curse, he slid from the bed and tugged up the linen sheet. Even at that small movement, she winced, proving that what she needed most was a long rest.

And what he needed most was a long, cold shower.

McKay palmed the pain pills she was resolutely ignoring and shook out one tablet onto his hand. “Take it. I can see you're fighting the pain.”

“I don't want to be groggy. Besides, I have to work. Work will take my mind off all the rest.”

Without a word, McKay strode to the telephone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling Dr. Harris.”

“You wouldn't.”

McKay began to dial.

“Fine, just fine. Give me the blasted pill.” With anger in every movement, Carly downed the medicine. “You still haven't told me anything about you.”

“We'll talk about it later.”

“No, we won't.” She lay stiffly as he pulled a quilt over her and flicked off the light. “And I don't take orders.” She yawned. “I
hate
taking orders.”

Girding himself for another argument, McKay turned back to the bed.

She was already asleep, one hand beneath her pale cheek and her body curled beneath the quilt. Exasperation gave way to wry amusement as he stood in the darkness, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest while moonlight traced her cheeks.

He thought, not for the first time, how lucky they both were that she wasn't close to being his type.

In the darkness, in the silence, Nigel Brandon put down the telephone, replaying his last conversation, nuance by careful nuance.

Deception he understood. Greed equally well. Both were at work now.

He walked to the window, watching lights dart and shimmer in Bridgetown's busy harbor where yachts and trawlers, sloops and small rowboats rocked at anchor.

Free enterprise in all its rich diversity.

As he stared out, something continued to nag, to gnaw.

He walked back to the phone and dialed swiftly. “Inspector St. John, please,” he said. “Immediately.”

Two calls to make
, he thought.

He hoped he hadn't waited too long for either.

C
arly opened her eyes, stretching gingerly in the channel of sunlight coming through the window. Then she froze.

McKay stood in the doorway.

Staring, just staring.

She sat up slowly. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you sleep.” He wore jeans, low and snug at his lean hips. His chest was bare, still damp from a shower.

Carly swallowed a quivering knot of pure lust. “Adding voyeurism to your many character defects, McKay?”

His laugh surprised her, rich and relaxed. “I'm glad to see that you're feeling your old nasty self. Care for breakfast? Archer's been busy this morning.” He lifted a tray from the nearby table, not waiting for her answer.

Carly inhaled then closed her eyes on a sigh. “If that's coffee you're carrying, you can name your price. Car, apartment, or bank account.”

“In case you're unaware, bribery is illegal.” He slid a steaming cup of cappuccino into her hands.

Carly savored a long, rich sip. “Archer is a genius. A dozen hotels have tried to steal him away, but he refuses to leave.” She scanned the covered dishes on the tray. “Stay back. If Archer's famous avocado, mango, and bacon
omelet is hiding under one of these silver covers, things might get messy.”

“Bingo.” McKay held out a warm plate with a steaming omelet accompanied by wafer-thin fried potatoes and papaya salsa. “I figure nothing can taste as good as this looks.”

Carly took a bite. “Even better. The man hasn't lost his touch.” She glanced up. “Why aren't you eating? If I know Archer, there's enough food for most of Barbados here.”

“Already ate. Not all of us can sleep until eleven.”

Startled Carly looked at the bedside clock. “I never sleep past seven.” She frowned worrying her lip. “I need to start some sketches, then take a few test shots before—”

“Eat. Archer will be very unpleasant if any of that omelet remains. He told me that very clearly.”

Carly began to eat, eyeing him warily. “You're being awfully nice. You must want something.” Her fork froze in midair. “There isn't bad news, is there? If something's wrong with Daphne or Uncle Nigel—”

“They're fine.”

Relief left her giddy, and she drank more of Archer's potent cappuccino to compensate. “Then let's have the bad news. Something's already wrong or it's about to be wrong, I can feel it along my shoulders.”

“Nothing's wrong.” McKay uncovered a plate with a goat-cheese crepe and fresh strawberries. He stole a bite before sliding it onto Carly's plate. “Just laying down the ground rules.”

“I don't care for the sound of that.”

“Relax. That's rule number one. Eating is rule number two. And if you have work to do or things to fetch, call me.”

“Another rule?” she asked stiffly.

“Merely a suggestion. I can help you, so let me.” He poured a cup of cappuccino and turned it slowly on a saucer. “I have some things in mind to fill your time.”

Carly pushed away her empty plate. “No more of that fitness stuff. I've had my dose for the year.”

He took her tray, then gestured toward the door. “Actually, this is something I think you'll enjoy.”

Carly shrugged on a robe and followed him down the hall, reluctance in every step. “I want to work.”

“And you will. One half hour of work for every three hours of rest. That's rule number three.”

She came to a quivering, furious halt. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, McKay. You have no right, absolutely no right to—”

“Dr. Harris agrees with the me.”

“Oh she does, does she? How long have you two been plotting and planning this?”

McKay studied his sleek black watch. “One hour and thirteen minutes. Approximately.”

“I won't be—be
handled
this way.”

“Nigel Brandon agrees, too.”

“You called him?”

“He called me. He's dropping by later to see how you're doing. Meanwhile, if you want to work, you have to rest. Otherwise, you go back to the hospital.”

Carly jammed her hands in her pockets. “And just how am I supposed to relax? With a mint julep and a sandal-wood fan? By giving myself a pedicure?”

McKay took her arm, hiding a smile. “Anyone ever tell you you're beautiful when you're angry?”

“No, and don't start now.” Her eyes widened as he opened a set of doors at the end of the second-floor hallway. “If this is some sort of spa thing, I'm out of here.”

“See for yourself.”

She stepped inside and all protests fled. Speechless, she ran a finger along velvet cushions and a gleaming lacquer projection table. “It's a screening room,” she said with hushed awe. “One of the best I've ever seen.” She struggled for composure. “Of course, the collection is probably limited. Quirky. You know, action thrillers and a few Fred Astaire.”

McKay pressed a button and a lacquered cabinet door slid open to reveal floor-to-ceiling shelves with hundreds of neatly labeled videos. Another area held DVDs. Carly braced one hand on the back of a velvet chair. “Did the earth just move for you, too?”

There was a glint in McKay's eyes. “If it happens, I'll be sure to tell you.” He ran a finger along the labeled rows. “So what will it be? We've got all the greats here.”

Carly raised an eyebrow. “No, don't tell me. For you, that would be
Road Warrior
and
Pulp Fiction
.” She crossed her arms smugly. “Right?”

McKay went to a shelf, pulled out a tape, and tossed it to Carly.

“The Godfather?
Okay, it was decent work, assuming you can forget the gory horse-head scene.”

“Forget? That was American cinema at its finest.”

“No way.” Carly slid the tape back into its slot. “If you want classic, there's only one choice. Great plot, an amazing cast, and music that lingers.” She moved along the alphabetized rows, selected a tape, and waved it at McKay. “The best of the best, as fresh today as it was in 1942. Won three Oscars. ‘Here's looking at you, kid.’ ”

“‘We'll always have Paris,’” McKay countered. “Okay, Bogie works for me. Take a seat. Archer gave me full operating instructions. He even made us food.”

When Carly was comfortable in the front center seat, he flicked a remote and sent the room into darkness. Without a word he handed her a bowl of popcorn drowning in decadent swirls of butter, then eased her back against his shoulder as stirring strains of music filled the room.

In minutes Carly was swept away to Rick's smoky café in war-torn Casablanca.

They were arguing even before the final credits began.

“No way. Bogart was good but he was better in
To Have and Have Not.
And what about
The Maltese Falcon?”
Carly huffed.

“Competent, but I'll still take Brando or Pacino in
The Godfather
or John Wayne in
The Searchers
.” McKay stood up and stretched. “I almost forgot Gary Cooper in
High Noon
”

“Yes, but—” Carly stopped as Archer appeared.

“Ms. Kirk is downstairs to speak with you. She looks quite upset.”

“I'll be right there. There must be another schedule change.” Carly looked down and realized she was still in her robe and nightgown. “I can't see her dressed like this.”

“Why not? You're supposed to be having R and R.”

Carly stood uncertainly in the doorway, then shrugged. “You've got a point. I'd better go.”

“I'll be nearby if you need me.”

Carly couldn't imagine why she'd need his help for a simple conversation with her boss. “Thanks. If a fight breaks out, I'll be sure to call you.”

When she opened the door to the sunny study overlooking the pool, she was surprised to find Mel pacing nervously, her hands at her back. Hank was sitting in a chair near the window, a camera bag at his feet. “Mel, I'm glad you and Hank could come. But why—”

“No, don't say a word. I have to get this off my chest first. I haven't slept all night and I want you to understand that I fought them every step of the way.”

“Fought who? What do you mean?”

Mel tugged at one earring. “Those slack-jawed fools in New York who can't see anything but balance sheets,” she said viciously. She glanced toward the door. “Is McKay still here?”