Going Overboard (2 page)

His eyes went a shade darker. “Sorry. I don't have any free time.”

Carly ignored the frown edging down his forehead. She couldn't lose him now. “Then I could go higher.”

His biceps rippled as he crossed his arms. “You could, could you?” He shook his head slowly. “Do you do this often?”

“Only when it's absolutely necessary.” She tried not to be irritated or nervous. She needed him too much to bail out now. “Sometimes I can't find the right man any other way.”

He laughed darkly. “I see you're honest. Most women wouldn't be. But I'm not interested.”

Desperate, Carly bent closer as she saw success sliding out of reach. “Why not? It would only be for a few hours.” Behind her back she crossed her fingers. If he was as good as she thought, she'd try to persuade him to give her two full days, but she wasn't going to tell him that yet.

“Just call me old-fashioned.” His eyes narrowed. “You see, I like to do the asking.”

She barely heard him, already visualizing those sculpted shoulders against a sunlit deck. “In that case let's say seven hundred fifty an hour,” she said breathlessly.

Pride and anger snapped across that controlled face. “Still not interested,” he curtly. “I don't bed down for money.”

Carly blinked. “Bed?”

“Or any other flat surface where you expect a man to perform.”

She swallowed hard, her face burning. “Now wait a minute, you've got this all wrong.”

“Nobody else available? Well, the day's still young.” He leaned against the pool ladder and studied her trim body, from silk blouse to delicate sandals. “Especially for a woman like you.” His lips curled. “Even without throwing in the money.”

A red-hot haze of fury drove Carly's mission from her mind. “You think I want sex? With you?”

One dark brow rose. “Don't you?”

“You conceited ape. I wouldn't consider sleeping with you—not for a cool million.”

“Got a redhead's temper, do you? I guess that shade didn't come from a bottle.” His gaze brushed her slender thighs and came to rest just above the hem of her short, drifty skirt. “Might be interesting to find out.”

A fresh wave of fury struck as she realized where he was staring—and why. Someone needed to take this Neolithic throwback down a notch or two. “I'd rather get naked and dance with a cactus,” Carly snarled.

He smiled as if he was enjoying the image.

The smile only made her angrier. “Let's get something straight, tough guy.” Carly stood up stiffly, clutching at her silk scarf and the remains of her dignity. She should have known the man was too gorgeous to be true. The last thing she needed on her photo shoot was a walking case of male hormones and unbridled ego. She smiled tightly. “I'll use tiny, little words, so your tiny, little brain can take them all in. I don't want to have sex with you. Not now or ever.”

“Just as well. At seven hundred fifty an hour,” he said thoughtfully, “you must expect a real workout.”

For a moment Carly was speechless. A shadow moved at the corner of the pool, but she paid no attention. “Open your ears and try to understand. You're the
last
man on earth I'd consider having sex with.”

She was shouting but she didn't care. Dimly she heard water splash. Someone called out across the deck.

The man in the pool rose, reaching out a hand.

“Forget it, Don Juan.”

She turned her head and saw a volleyball hurtling straight at her. As if in slow motion, water sloshed up over the side of the pool as her infuriating Adonis jumped high. In one smooth movement he swung sideways, opened his hand, and captured the runaway ball in midair.

Only inches from her face.

I
t was a real shame he didn't have time to accept her offer, McKay thought as he savored the view of wet, clinging silk.

Damned nice breasts, he noted as the redhead glared at the ball locked in his hand then down at the blouse dripping onto her shoes.

McKay wasn't a man who followed the vagaries of women's fashion, but he recognized quality when he saw it. The flirty silk blouse and matching scarf had probably cost her a bundle in some fancy boutique. He had a feeling her strappy sandals weren't cheap either, and now they were probably beyond repair.

Definitely a high-priced package, he decided. Teaching her a lesson might have held a certain appeal under any other circumstances. The lady was clearly spoiling for a fight, and McKay enjoyed a good argument with a woman who knew her own mind.

He palmed the ball and tossed it casually to a deck chair with a withering glance at the collegiate type who had thrown it dangerously off course. “Sorry about your shoes, ma'am.”

The redhead shoved wet hair from her face, oblivious to her clinging blouse.

McKay was far from oblivious.

No bra, he noted. And the lady was firm in all the right places. He took another look, surprised to feel a jolt of

pure lust. The woman wasn't even close to his type. She was too pricey and too polished.

Still, a man could look.

He swung one hand out, brushing her shoulder as her scarf drifted past him in the water. In one easy motion he snagged the bright square before it could float away. “Looks like you're losing your clothes, ma'am.”

She snatched the wet silk with trembling fingers, her cheeks burning. McKay found himself enjoying that too, before he pulled himself out of the water.

He forced himself not to smile as he swept his towel off a deck chair and held it out. “Looks like you could use a towel.”

A vein throbbed at her throat. “I'd chew plutonium first.”

Furious and no mistake. Definitely a natural redhead. He shrugged calmly. “Suit yourself.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

“Carly, are you okay?” A slender blonde in orange capri pants pushed between them, looking worried. “I thought that ball was going to deck you,” she said breathlessly. “It's a good thing your friend has such amazing reflexes.”

“He's no friend of mine.” The woman named Carly flung McKay's towel right back at him. “I might have caught it myself if Mr. Mesozoic here had given me half a chance,” she huffed.

“No way. That ball would have nailed you.” The woman in the capris stared from one to the other. “Am I missing the subtext here?”

“None that matters,” McKay drawled as he draped his towel over one shoulder. “Happy hunting, ma'am.”

“Pig.”

“Morning, ladies.” McKay gave a two-finger salute, then headed off through the crowded pool area.

A perfect start to a perfect morning, he thought irritably. The pool was too small for a serious workout and the recreation deck was a battle zone. In the last twenty-four

hours he'd been propositioned at least ten times by women in search of intimate companionship.

Not one of them had been as blatant as the redhead.

McKay laughed grimly. Given her fury, he figured he'd seen the last of her, which was just as well. This cruise was no pleasure trip for him. On the other hand since he was a healthy, red-blooded male, he couldn't help replaying the moment water had splashed high, soaking her silk skirt and blouse.

McKay scratched his jaw. To give the woman credit, she hadn't expected to be doused caught in a blouse that captured every detail, right down to her dark, pouty nipples.

He shook his head in disgust.
Hell, McKay, forget about the woman s breasts.

As he approached his stateroom, awareness prickled along his neck. Without any change in stride, he detoured down a side corridor, all his senses alert.

Two women in expensive warm-up suits passed deep in conversation. McKay caught the words
alimony
and
hidden assets
before they rounded the corner.

A door closed behind him. He dropped his towel and halted casually, surveying the empty corridor before and behind him as he scooped it up. None of the doors opened.

Get a grip
, he thought in disgust. No one knew he was here except Navy chain of command and his one onboard contact. The chance of someone having him under surveillance was nil. There was no reason for him to be jumpy.

He glanced at his watch and realized he was going to be late if he didn't get the lead out and stop daydreaming about stacked redheads with an attitude problem.

Silence met him when he opened the door to his stateroom a few minutes later.

“Izzy, are you here?” McKay scanned the quiet room, reining in his impatience. He had been flying blind for twenty hours since he'd been pulled from the water,
airlifted out of his current SEAL training mission in the Pacific, and been given cryptic orders to board this cruise liner. All McKay knew so far was that he was to present himself as a wealthy civilian enjoying a much-needed vacation. The details of his assignment were secret, to be imparted on board, courtesy of a freelancer he'd worked with before.

A week in the Caribbean aboard the love boat.

All in all, it should have been a plum assignment.

Except that he'd only left port that morning and already he was stir crazy. He was a SEAL, highly trained and fiercely motivated. He was here to work and he damned well wanted to get down to it.

The punch caught just under his lower rib. Spinning fast, he landed a hard jab in immediate retaliation.

He sighed in irritation when he saw his attacker's white uniform, mahogany skin, and Cheshire cat grin. “Nice uniform, Izzy,” McKay growled.

Ishmael Harris Teague, Izzy to his friends, was smart, cocky, and well on his way to making a fortune in the private sector. An electronics genius, he had a wicked sense of humor along with a reputation for enjoying his work. “Room steward, Mr. McKay.” His smile widened. “Bringing your lunch, as ordered.”

“Like hell you are.” McKay looked him over. Izzy was clearly in top shape, and that would make their assignment easier.

Whatever the damned assignment was.

Suspected terrorist assault on the cruise ship?

Smuggling operation?

High-profile assassination?

“Don't try coming up behind me again. In another few seconds you would have been dog food.”

“Dream on.” Izzy pointed to his loaded food cart. “What do you think of my cover?”

McKay had to agree that it was top-notch. A worker in uniform was invisible to a casual observer. “Get your papers set up. I'm going to change.”

When McKay emerged, Izzy glanced at his white polo shirt and linen jacket. “Snappy clothes for a brown-water Navy SEAL.”

McKay shrugged. “Cover, same as yours. What have you got for me? No one would tell me anything except that the mission has top priority.”

Izzy slid a leather case from beneath the table skirt, unzipped it carefully, and removed the contents. From experience, McKay knew that his contact was not only a genius with every sort of electronic gadget but a thorough professional. Not even a stray piece of lint got past him. As a DEA agent, Izzy had worked in hot zones in a dozen countries and had never lost his cool. His irreverence had annoyed his superiors, but McKay knew the cocky attitude helped to keep things light. Now, as a freelance security agent, he still had that same cocky humor.

Izzy pulled a stack of grainy satellite photographs from the case. “Meet Nigel Brandon, the governor-general of Santa Marina. Our man's an Oxford graduate with honors in medieval history. He spent four years with a merchant banking firm in London, then two more in Asia overseeing start-up energy companies.”

McKay stared at the urbane face in the top photo. “Hardly your usual Caribbean functionary.”

“It's in the family. Impeccable bloodlines. The Brandons have been running Santa Marina for generations.” Izzy shrugged. “But now the governor has trouble in paradise.”

“What's the emergency? Santa Marina is a perfect example of modernization in action. They've got a solid economy, a stable political system, and a satisfied population—not to mention thousands of well-heeled vacationers who hit their perfect beaches every year.”

“Maybe not so perfect.” Izzy held out a thick envelope. “These are your official orders, direct from D.C. In the last six months Brandon has been receiving death threats. They also target his family, including a woman whom he adopted ten years ago. Since she's legally still a

U.S. citizen and usually off island working in the States, he contacted an old friend in the State Department and called in a few favors. He wants this kept low profile, but he wants her safe.”

“Personal protection?” McKay bit back a curse. “I was hauled out of an important training mission, outfitted with designer clothes, and raced across the country to become a high-society baby-sitter?” He scanned his written orders in disgust and found them exactly as Izzy had outlined. McKay had heard about his getting assignments like this. The favors were usually discreet, but very much a fact of life in the military, where politics greased the wheels that kept appropriations flowing.

And orders were orders, even if they stank.

McKay snorted and tossed Brandon's photo back onto the cart. “I can tell from your face that there's more.”

“What Brandon wants, he gets. The man's got solid-gold contacts. His country has been key to maintaining stability in the Caribbean. Ours is not to question why.”