Going Overboard (18 page)

“Yes, but—”

“Good. He should be here. Make him stay. You two take some time off, as much as you like. If money's a problem, I'll pay.”

“Time off? But you said—”

“I know exactly what I said and what I planned, but I've been overruled by a bunch of tightwad accountants with

liver spots for brains. Men who wouldn't understand energy and creativity if they bit them on their bony asses.”

“What she means,” Hank said tightly, “is that you've been replaced.”

Carly's hands went to her stomach as pain burned deep. “I've been pulled?” She felt a tremor race through her. “Fired?”

Hank nodded, his experienced eyes filling with sympathy. “They started whining about the costs after the incident at the waterfall. They said they didn't want production delayed but my guess is that they're really afraid of liability. Mel fought them tooth and nail, even offered to sign waivers. She assured them you'd be better and faster than anyone else they could find. Of course, this business with Griff in Martinique hasn't helped matters.”

Carly wasn't aware of McKay behind her until he touched her shoulders. “Maybe you'd better sit down,” he said gently. But as he studied Hank, his eyes were icy. “Maybe we should all sit down for the explanation.”

Carly sank into a wing chair, feeling nothing but stabbing pain in her stomach. “What about Griff?”

“He gave a press conference, the little weasel.” Hank toed the edge of his long camera case. “He and his girlfriend have been complaining to anyone who'll listen that you demanded money from them under the table. According to their story, when they wouldn't pay up, you arranged for someone else to fill in for the body shots. Now the media are on it and the client's furious at the bad publicity.”

Carly ran shaky hands over her face. “I never asked Griff for a penny. Ask Daphne. Ask anyone.”

Mel leaned close and gripped her hand. “I know that and so does everyone else who's worked with you. You'd never compromise your vision for money.” She smiled thinly. “We've argued over that particular issue often enough. Griff is just trying to recoup his losses and twist things so he comes out looking like a poor, misused

victim. I had no idea he was such a barracuda, or I never would have hired him.” Mel patted Carly's shoulder. “Don't give up hope. I'm flying back tonight to meet with the client and his bean counters to convince them these accusations are groundless. Daphne and Hank have helped me put together a new film clip from the old footage, and I plan to use it very effectively. If I have my way, you'll be back at work in a week.”

Carly stared blindly at the floor, reeling from the unexpected blow. “Thanks for all you're doing, Mel.” It was a struggle to speak, to think against the roar in her head.

“To hell with thanks. Just get yourself well, then plan some more fabulous footage. Once I have you reinstated, we'll have to move fast.”

“If I'm reinstated.” The words trailed off.

“You will be.”

Carly heard McKay move behind her. “Here's another tidbit to toss in at your meeting,” he said coldly. “If you want me involved, the job is Carly's. Otherwise I'm not interested.”

Mel's smile was slow and feral. “I like how you think, McKay. Yes, I'd say that's going to help a great deal. The client's wife seemed very taken with you, and I doubt she'll want a replacement.”

McKay's eyes narrowed. “That's the deal. If Carly's out, I'm out.”

“You hear that, Hank?” Mel called to the smiling cameraman.

“Every word.”

“Good. Now let's get going. I've got a nasty little war to plan.” She tugged on her sleek, black jacket. “I'll send word as soon as I have something solid. Meanwhile, you stay put, and keep that fertile brain working.”

“Of course,” Carly said mechanically. Her fingers refused to stop twisting. Back and forth, back and forth. “I'll—see what I can come up with.”

Mel exchanged a worried glance with McKay, then drew a breath. “There's one more thing. I don't like it, but

it's standard procedure under the circumstances. I… I have to ask for your camera equipment and any film you shot as part of this assignment.”

The words slashed deep, leaving Carly shaken. “Film? My working camera and equipment…” She drove back the tears and hurt. “Of course. Since I'm fired.”

“Temporarily,” Mel said tightly. “As temporarily as I can make this. You can still work with your own camera.”

“I didn't bring equipment of my own. I didn't expect to need any.” Carly stared blankly out the window. “My case is downstairs. I'll go find it.”

“Hank will help you. I don't like this, Carly. Actually, I hate it. But we'll have everything straightened out soon.”

The words came in a blur. Carly felt McKay's hand on her shoulder in a hard grip. When he stood back and opened the door, she was surprised at the anger that burned in his eyes.

Not his fight. Not his problem. The man hated cameras. He should be relieved to be done with the whole business.

She shook her head unable to think of anything beyond what she had to do next: packing up the gear that she'd babied and cherished to produce a dozen outstanding projects. She knew that when she closed the case and turned it over, the pain would be like losing her right hand.

“I'll get them back.” Her fingers closed to quivering fists. “No mush-for-brains actor like Griffin Kelly is going to stop me from finishing this shoot.”

“That's the idea. Fight back. The little weasel will fold as soon as he gets one good shove. I only wish I were there to deliver it personally.”

Carly reached out blindly and squeezed his hand. “Thanks. In case things don't work out, I want to tell you you're the best I've ever worked with, Hank.” Her throat was dry and tight. No matter how she struggled, tears threatened.

“Hell.” The big man cleared his throat. “Let's go get

this wrapped up. I'm flying back to New York with Mel, and there are a few heads I'm going to bash in as soon as I get there.”

Upstairs in the quiet study, McKay watched Mel pace. Now that Carly had gone, she was considerably more agitated.

“Is it true?” he snapped. “Can you get her job back?”

“I'm going to give it my best shot, but reinstatement won't be easy. Griffin said some damaging things at a sensitive time.”

“All lies.”

“Of course they were. But they still cause damage.” She strode to the door, then turned. “You'll stay on here?”

“As long as I can.”

“Good. This goes beyond work with Carly, beyond mere dedication.” She blew out an angry breath. “It's going to cut her off at the knees. Take care of her.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

She nodded. “I figured you would. Once it really hits, she'll need to talk, to cry.”

“I'll be here,” he said tightly. “You can count on that.”

Mel smiled and for the first time all day there was a glimmer of pleasure in her eyes. “That's exactly what I hoped to hear you say.”

S
he stood at the window above the sea, her mind a blank.

It could have been hours before the stirring of the curtain against her cheek broke through her wall of pain.

As awareness returned instinct made her check her watch before tackling the afternoon's work.

Except there was no work. Job, equipment, and deepest identity had been stripped away by the malicious lies of people with no talent and no scruples.

Carly pressed a shaky hand against her eyes. She
was
her work, and she measured nearly all the joy she knew in the quiet moments of planning or in the wild flood of creative power that swept over her when a shoot went well.

Now all that joy had been ripped from her.

She stared at her hands, clenched on the windowsill, sun dappled and tense. These hands had fussed and finessed straining to claim a square of light or a curve of shadows against a world that never stood still. Her heart had sung to that chase, every skill awakened.

But not now.

Her fingers tightened. Word traveled fast in her small, competitive world. There would be a sprinkling of sympathy calls and even more calls from the curious or outright gleeful. Then the offers would dwindle and her fees would plummet.

Inside a week everyone in their business would know the story—true or not—and her career would be wrecked.

Fair or not.

The ocean stretched before her, savagely beautiful in the heat of midday. Its vast, azure sweep seemed to enchant even as it mocked shrinking all her worries into insignificance. For Carly, only one photographer had ever caught the sea's fierce beauty and terrible allure. The framed photograph stood on a shelf behind her. There beneath towering skies rose the granite fingers of Ouessant, a fog-shrouded island in the Sea of Brittany.

Carly had no need to turn to see those deadly rocks banked high with sea spray. She carried the photo when she traveled a reminder of the mother she had never understood, the mother who had been drawn inexorably by an island that claimed wrecks like a Siren claimed lovers. Carly whispered the ancient curse that every French seaman knew too well:

“Qui voit Ouessant voit son sang
”
Who sees the rocks of Ouessant sees his own blood.

The photo was her mother's finest work, finished less than a month before her death.

Carly saw the rocks now, ancient and hungry, a place where wild winds carried the wail of desperate ghosts determined to drag the living down to share their restless graves. It was a place where dreams were shattered and life lost all meaning. To Carly, that would always be the heart of the sea, endlessly taking, endlessly consuming, permitting no master but itself. As it had taken and consumed her parents.

She heard those winds now, felt the angry slap of sea spray. She saw her own cold granite Ouessant.

She turned away from the sea, turned away from the icy winds of memory. With the last of her will, she sank into a chair and studied the dark, brooding photograph

sitting directly above the spot where her equipment had been.

Her tears were silent and bitter.

It hurt to watch her slide through the day. When he brought her food, she ate mechanically, her eyes on the window, focused on a place only she could see.

McKay was smart enough to know that all the usual platitudes would be useless. He'd been pulled off assignments often enough to know the pain of dismissal and how deeply it cut.

When she needed to talk, he'd be close. Until then, silence was his best gift.

After he made his hourly check of house and grounds, McKay found his way to the kitchen.

Archer looked up instantly. “How is she?”

“Just the same. She eats because I tell her to and says nothing. Then she just stares at a photograph of the sea.”

Archer's mouth thinned. “Her mother's work, taken someplace in France. A terrible, depressing place. I've never liked the shot.” He floured a mound of dough. “Mr. Brandon just phoned. He'll be arriving within the hour. He sounded furious.”

“As he should be,” McKay growled.

Archer passed him a cup of coffee, shaking his head. “Carly's work means everything to her. Any fool can see that. How could they take that away from her?”

“I'm sure they would say it was nothing personal.” McKay stared out the window at the immaculate grounds. “Strictly business.”

“Business be damned,” Archer snapped. “She has the best eye and the most skilled hands they'll ever find.”

“I believe her boss was flying back to say exactly that. Carly won't go unrepresented.”

Archer punched at the mound of dough meant for feather-light French brioche. “That she won't. Mr.

Brandon has already set his lawyers to work and they're out for blood. They're pushing for breach of contract at the very least, and they've already slapped a libel suit on the viper-tongued actor who manufactured that story about her asking for bribes.”

“Good. Let him take some heat. He's the sort who'll cave in as soon as the pressure mounts.” McKay glanced at his watch, then stood up, his coffee untouched. “I'm going down to check the beach.”

“There's an officer posted.”

“I prefer to check things myself.” He trusted no one, although McKay didn't mention that.

As soon as he left the house, he headed for the narrow steps that led through dense forest to the cliffs and wound from there down to the sea. Once he was out of sight of the house, McKay slid a small, secure radio from his pocket.

“Izzy, come in.”

Static whispered. “Right here,” Izzy said quietly. “I can see you.”

“I can't see you, which is perfect. Any news about that silver Audi?”

“Registered to a couple of tourists from lowa. It was reported stolen from their hotel last night. We're checking them out, but I think the story will hold. Meanwhile, the Barbados police have been notified to stop the car if it's seen.” Izzy cleared his throat. “How is Carly holding up?”

“Not well. It's hard not to take a thing like this personally. Attached to her career as she is, being fired is devastating. I hope her boss can turn things around.”

Izzy hissed. “Damn!”

“What's wrong?” McKay tensed, scanning the foliage.

“Stand down, McKay, just some badly placed thorns.” Leaves rustled. “According to the business plan Comrade Vronski filed in Santa Marina, he had half a million in a local account. As soon as the contracts are signed, he's to wire in five million more.”