Going Overboard (20 page)

He felt the weight of his holstered weapon beneath his arm and the high-tech pager in his pocket. Duty was a cold iron weight, but a weight he was trained never to ignore.

“We're a universe apart,” he said harshly. “In a week you'll be back in New York and I'll be—” He closed his hands to fists. “I'll be somewhere else.” A place where he would be entirely out of contact and facing hostile fire. A place where he could likely die.

Even then, it took him a lifetime to step away from her.

“We're not rewriting the
Kama Sutra
,” Carly snapped. “It's simple contact, McKay. Simple touch.”

“Nothing's simple about it.”

“What's complicated about one night?”

“You're not that kind of woman,” he said tightly.

“So now I'm a candidate for sainthood. Perfect.” She turned glaring out over the balcony toward the ocean. “McKay one, Saint Carly zero.”

He cursed. “I'm sorry.” He raised a hand toward her shoulder, but she blocked the movement, stepping back.

“For a man who sees so much, you're blind.” Anger flared in her eyes. “Enjoy your cold bed. Just remember that you could have been sharing it with me.” Her voice broke, then steadied. “And it would have been amazing.”

His body was telling him the same thing.

Somehow he forced himself not to listen. “Dammit, I've got nothing to offer you. Not time, not a future.”

“I didn't ask for a future. Only for tonight.”

“You're not listening, Carly.”

“I'm tired of listening. I'm tired of taking the pictures, framing the action, while life passes me by.”

She vanished inside with the curtains drifting behind her, leaving an awful weight of silence to settle around him in the moonlight.

Carly awoke in a cold sweat. An hour before dawn, the darkness was oppressive and her body ached from fighting tangled sheets.

Her heart was pounding as she sat up. No wind or light filtered through the open balcony doors, and the house was quiet.

As a dream it was no worse than the others that had come with tormenting frequency over the years.

Pounding waves in angry seas. A hill of wildflowers withering beneath the sun. Worst of all, the woman with a camera, walking away, never turning back despite Carly's hoarse pleas.

This time the dream started with the gravestones on Tortola, high above the water that had claimed her parents. Then, in that odd way of dreams, Carly found herself at the edge of the sea she had every reason to hate. There in the scream of the wind she had watched sand flow beneath her feet, parting on a weathered piece of glass where she saw her own face.

First as a child, then as a woman.

And finally as nothing, an oval with no features and cold, dead holes instead of eyes.

Even now the image had her shaking, scrubbing at her clammy cheeks.

Just a dream.

She pushed stiffly to her feet and padded barefoot to the balcony. Mutely she stared out to where wave and

wind met in a line of gray-black. Locking her hands across her stomach, she rocked rhythmically, grieving for the childhood lost too soon, for the innocence and trust never to be reclaimed.

For the mother she could never understand or persuade to stay.

When would she put the memories to rest?

Cool wind gusted through the curtains, brushing her damp cheeks, an answer to a prayer she couldn't remember making. Out near the horizon faintest streaks of light touched the sky as dawn stole closer.

She shoved down her regrets, shoved down her bitter memories, watching that tiny smudge of light grow, gray swirling to blue and pink.

No more regrets, she swore. She would find the colors and wrestle them onto film, reclaiming the job she deserved. By skill, occasional brilliance, and raw determination she would trap the restless images that danced before her even now.

Above her the clouds burned into pink and red, making her yearn for her camera. Steadier now, she faced the first glow of day, welcoming anger like a friend.

Already she was framing her first new scenes.

C
arly was calm.

    Deadly calm.

She had almost managed to blot the hurt of McKay's rejection. She'd offered and he'd refused, and that was that.

At midmorning she straightened the simple white sundress and smoothed her hair behind her ears. The tears were gone now. Even the dark circles from sleeplessness were hidden beneath a layer of careful makeup.

Pride demanded no less.

She squared her shoulders, refusing to show her pain. She had work to do, new scenes to plan. When Mel called with the news that she'd been rehired Carly was determined to be ready to plunge back into action.

Clutching a dozen finished sketches under her arm, she headed downstairs, careful to keep her gaze away from McKay's room.

He was furious.

She'd taken his answers the night before and in seconds she had managed to twist them beyond recognition. But now he knew exactly what to do. He'd start by proving that short-term sex didn't suit her. It was time for action, not talk.

He strode down the long porch, every scrap of energy

focused on the figure sitting beside the pool making sketches in a book. At least she was being creative again, working up storyboards or thumbnails or whatever the designs of her profession were called.

McKay stopped as he caught sight of her sketch of a sailboat and a man with one hand on the white canvas, his face turned as he stared far out to sea. He could almost hear the soft calypso music and the hammer of drums, followed by the low-whispered words
We have your dream.

The power of her design shook him, but he pushed it aside, determined to make his point before she could twist his words again.

When she turned her eyes were as cool as storms he'd watched fling hail over the Arctic Ocean. “Morning, McKay.” She saw the direction of his gaze and closed the sketchbook with a snap. “I hope you slept well.”

“Like a baby,” he countered as annoyed as she was cool. “We need to talk.”

“Later. I'm working.”

“Now.” He moved in front of her, blocking the sunlight. “Right now, dammit.”

She clicked her tongue. “Angry, are we? Bad for the blood pressure, you know. Why don't you go run some laps on the treadmill to mellow out. I suggest twenty minutes, full incline, full stride.” Her voice was icy.

“Exercise can wait. Right now I intend to clear the air. I'm accepting, Carly. Let's go.” He gripped her hand. “Upstairs. My bedroom. Right now.”

He was angry enough to enjoy the shock in her eyes as she stood up.

“Now? Upstairs?”

“Damned right. Don't make me the villain of this piece.” He steered her toward the stairs, every muscle rigid. “I was wrong last night. I intend to make up for that now.”

Right after he watched her fold McKay thought.

She tugged at her scarf as they walked into the house. “I'm not sure the offer still stands,” she said weakly.

“No?” He blocked her way, backing her slowly against the wall. “And why is that? Possibly because you agree with me? If so,” he said smugly, “the subject is closed.”

Color filled her cheeks. She shoved her fist against his chest. Her knuckles rose, grazing his jaw not quite playfully. “I think not. Your room or mine?”

“Whichever is closest.”

“Yours, in that case.” Smiling, she strode up the stairs in front of him, then pushed open his door and eyed the room with detached interest. “Bed or sofa?”

McKay didn't move. What was she doing? Much more and she'd have him on his knees.

But he swore he'd make his point first.

He tugged off his shirt, growing angrier by the second. “Why not both? I'm in the mood for quantity.”

She ran her fingers over the neatly made bed. “So am I.” She took off her scarf and tossed it onto the bed, then fingered the tiny buttons on her dress. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

For his witless brain to recharge.

He unbuckled his belt and snapped it free, determined to call her bluff. His eyes never left hers as he kicked the door shut and slid the lock into place.

He was certain he saw her swallow hard. “Did you say something?”

“N-no.”

Hiding his triumph, he stalked closer, expecting at any moment to hear her launch into a breathless surrender.

Instead, she ran her hands along her body, stepped out of her short, lacy slip, and tossed it in his face. “Did you say something?” she purred.

McKay's vision clouded to pure lust-red. Enough was enough.

“Things may get rough,” he growled. “It's been a while since I've had sex.”

“I live for rough.”

Swallowing his shock, he worked the button free at his

waist and went for his zipper, pleased when her hand froze on her dress. “Any problems?” he asked coolly.

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

“You're not expecting me to get down on one knee and say a lot of nonsense, I hope. Neither of us believes in romance.”

“How true. Let's skip the romance, by all means.” She yanked her top button free. “You made it crystal clear last night that there was no place for emotion between us. Clearly, you were right.”

Dammit, the woman was twisting things again. McKay hooked his thumbs into his pockets, tugging his jeans even lower. “Good. Now let's get this over with.” He shoved an ottoman out of his way with one foot. “Can't you hurry up and get naked?”

Her eyes glittered. “Like this, you mean?”

She caught two fingers at the neck of her dress and sent five buttons flying across the floor.

McKay fought an urge to grip the torn dress and shove it closed. “Shame to ruin a good dress,” he said hoarsely.

“A bigger shame to waste valuable time.” She pursed her lips, studying him from head to toe. “You're wearing too many clothes, McKay.” With a small shrug she sent her dress pooling at her feet.

All she wore beneath were pink bikini panties with foolish red roses and a fresh white bandage. She was more beautiful than any woman had a right to be, all Grace Kelly curves and hellion eyes. The combination hit McKay with a one-two punch to the gut. Why did the woman have to have such a tiny waist and forever legs when a man was trying to make her see sense and stop behaving like a fool?

“How's that?” she murmured.

No drooling
, McKay thought wildly. “Everything in the right place.”

“There
is
one problem.”

“The stitches?”

“No. They're just a mild annoyance as long as I avoid

any acrobatics. I'm thinking of something else.” Her eyes never left his face as she unclasped her pearl necklace and tossed it gracefully onto the bed. “I'm not protected. I was planning on business, not pleasure, this trip. I suppose you must have something handy.”

Protection? McKay hadn't expected the scenario to progress half so far. He searched her eyes for any sign of a bluff but found only determination.

“Of course,” he snapped, pulling open the top drawer of his bureau. “Right here. No problem. By the dozens.” Drawer by drawer he searched, then pulled his canvas bag from beneath the bed, dug into a corner pocket, and held up a small packet.

Coolly, Carly pulled it from his fingers, trailed the foil along one shoulder, then down between her breasts.

McKay felt sweat break out on his forehead as she moved the square lower. He fought to keep his gaze away from those high, perfect breasts as her fingers feathered along the edge of her panties. She smiled at him lazily and slid the lace lower.

Drooling was a definite possibility, he realized.

He swallowed hard and accepted surrender, bitter though it was. As a soldier, he knew it was better to discuss terms while you were still coherent.

“Stop, damn it.”

The snap in his voice made her tense and the foil packet shot to the floor. Muttering, she went to knees and elbows in search of it, and the sight had McKay fighting a groan.

“Got it.” She waved her prize smugly, lunging back to her feet.

Suddenly her eyes shifted into a blank stare. The color drained from her face. “Bad idea. I think I'm going to—”

She simply caved in at the knees. McKay shot forward, catching her only inches from the floor.

His heart pounded as he looked at her sheet-white face, lifting her gently. “Of all the baboon-stupid, pig-headed
things to do, this takes the cake.” He slid her onto his bed trying to avoid touching any more of her than he had to, cursing when his hands took far too long to pull a blanket over her flushed skin.

“Carly, wake up.”

There was no fresh blood on her bandage. That would have been encouraging if guilt hadn't already grabbed him by the neck.

“Okay, champ. Time to wake up. You're scaring me here.”

He stroked her cool cheeks, feeling an odd pressure in his chest. She was still recovering from her wound. What kind of fool would goad her in her condition?

Him.

“Wake up,” he repeated hoarsely. “Come on, honey, don't make me beg.”

Her lashes fluttered.

She made something between a cough and a groan, then flung one arm over her head, smacking him soundly on the left temple.

She looked up at him dizzily. “Don't tell me I slept through all the good stuff.”