Going Overboard (22 page)

No one went to so much trouble without a substantial goal.

Laughter drifted through the courtyard. “Keep Daphne close,” McKay said tightly. “It's not over.”

St. John stiffened. “Why so certain?”

Sheer, gnawing instinct. The edgy feeling at the back of the neck that came from too many supposedly safe ops that went south from bad intel.

McKay shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

“We could use your help, McKay. We're getting nowhere, and the governor is terrified that next time someone will break through security and harm his family or staff.”

McKay didn't envy the governor. Being a target was one thing. Knowing that the people you loved were targets had to be the worst kind of torture.

“He doesn't need to worry about Carly.” McKay ran his eyes over the rolling lawns and the dense woods beyond. “No one's getting in or out while I'm here. Even if they do, Carly will be right beside me.”

St. John nodded, then motioned to his driver. “I'll be driving the crew members back to Bridgetown shortly. You've got enough on your hands without any extra distractions here.” He smiled as Daphne swirled in a dramatic pose for Carly's new camera. “Miss Daphne will go with me. I've been trying to convince the governor to return to Santa Marina with her and his staff, but he won't leave while Miss Carly is here recovering. Nor will he give the impression that he's running scared.”

“Running might be safer.” But McKay sensed that whether the governor was on Barbados or another island, the threats would continue. There could be no letting down his guard.

“Be careful.” St. John watched Daphne waltzing with Archer under a towering banyan tree while the crew fought laughter. “You're the final line of defense here.”

McKay glanced across the road at the tree where Izzy was hunkered down, virtually invisible. “Count on it.”

An hour later Daphne and the crew had left. McKay was nursing a cup of Archer's potent tea on a lounge chair near the man-made waterfall at the end of the pool. He was trying hard not to notice Carly but his gaze kept snapping back like a pulled rubber band.

She was perched on the edge of the free-form pool, looking as if she were balanced on thin air with the Caribbean stretching away behind her. It was only an illusion, McKay knew, an image created by careful placement of the pool on a steep slope. The knowledge didn't keep him from itching to tug her out of danger.

Then there was the problem of her suit, two scraps of red spandex that had him itching in other, more primitive ways.

He managed to keep his expression cool and casual as he crossed the flagstone terrace. “I thought you'd still be trying out your new equipment.”

Carly lifted her hand shading her eyes against the sun. “I was tempted.”

McKay dropped into a deck chair beside her. “Not blocked—or whatever you artists call it?”

“Not blocked. I meant what I said yesterday. I'm tired of framing the shots while life passes me by. I'm taking the rest of the day off.”

“In spite of that lovely camera, just waiting for you?”

“That's right. I'm going to sit back, relax, and soak up some lovely sunlight.”

“In that suit, you'll soak up a lot of sun.”

“If you must know, I couldn't struggle into my one-piece suit without straining few stitches.”

McKay frowned. “Let me have a look.”

“I'll be fine, McKay. Just stop me if I feel compelled to attempt the thousand-meter freestyle. Gaffer's tape was

perfect to cover my bandage.” She pointed at her side. “It's completely waterproof.” She took a deep breath, dangling her feet in the crystal water. “It's also incredibly ugly, but since you've made it clear that you're not interested in my body, that hardly matters, does it?”

It would take more than a strip of gray tape to make her ugly. Especially in that siren-red suit she was almost wearing. But McKay was steering clear of that particular subject.

Concerned, he studied her fair skin. “Shouldn't you put on sunscreen?”

“Already done.” Her lips quirked. “Don't tell me you're disappointed.”

He was. Nothing would have felt better than running his hands over her smooth stomach and forever legs, if only to see her squirm the way he was squirming. “A little,” he said mildly.

She propped one hand on the flagstones. “Why don't you change? The water's glorious.”

He stood and stretched, at the same time scanning the hillside. “I'll pass for now.” He was watching a boat steam beyond the cove when he heard Carly's low laugh, just before her heads hooked around his ankles. “I think it's time you got wet, McKay. That cool, competent way you study everything around you makes me nervous.” Smiling, she tightened her grip.

McKay thought of the pistol holstered on his calf. “I don't want to swim.”

“But I
absolutely
insist.” Still smiling, she pushed off the edge of the pool, falling backward. McKay struggled to keep his balance, then plunged in after her. He twisted in midair to avoid falling on top of her, but grazed her shoulder, dunking her soundly.

Even at that she was laughing when he broke the surface, her eyes full of mischief. “You're all wet, McKay.”

In retaliation, he shoved her underwater, then smiled when she came up sputtering. “Looks like both of us are.”

“At least I'm dressed for it.” She shot water at his face, then dived for safety, surfacing at the far end of the pool.

She swam like a mermaid he thought, all flashing limbs and smooth power. He remembered she'd spent every summer on Santa Marina, which had given her plenty of opportunity to practice.

He stroked to the edge of the pool, kicked out of his shoes and socks, then wedged his gun out of sight inside one shoe. After piling the clothes on the terrace, he circled slowly, tracking her across the deep end.

She avoided him, piking down and slipping through his fingers like liquid silver. For a moment he could only stare, struck by her restless energy as she shot past him and surfaced in an arc of bubbles.

“You're losing your touch, McKay.”

“I'm losing more than my touch,” he muttered, stripping off his shirt and tossing it with the rest of his discarded clothes.

Carly paddled sideways, careful to stay well out of reach. “If I'd known there would be a floor show, I'd have pushed you in sooner.”

McKay slid underwater. As he'd expected she followed and he caught her ankle, pulling her farther down and capturing her face. Slowly he breathed against her parted lips while bubbles shimmered and danced around them.

He couldn't have said where the magic began or ended, whether in the touch of her lips or the restless brush of her body against his. Sunlight poured through the water, dusting her cheeks and hair, and there was a dazed look in her eyes as she pulled free and kicked to the surface, gasping for air.

McKay followed unhurriedly, well trained to stretch out one breath for minutes.

“Where did you learn to hold your breath that way?” Carly demanded.

“Taipei. Singapore. Fiji.” He watched a frown line her forehead. “On my first freighter,” he added.

“You're lying. I'm comfortable in the water, but you move as if water's your real home. Don't insult me with some lame story about being a champion surfer or I might have to drown you.” Her frown deepened. “Except I couldn't drown you. I couldn't get away from you, either, if you were really trying to catch me.” She stroked backward. “You're Navy, aren't you? One of those special forces people.”

“Carly—”

“It was all arranged, wasn't it? All of it, right from your arrival aboard the cruise ship. That's what Daphne meant.” She shook her head, not waiting for an answer. “When were you going to let me in on your little secret?”

McKay lunged for her wrist, but she ducked sharply, kicking away from him. “Carly, stop.”

“I trusted you, dammit.”

He caught her at the ladder, his hands gripping her shoulders. “You can still trust me. Don't turn away. I'm not finished.”

“Yes, you are.” Her eyes snapped in fury. “It had to be Uncle Nigel's idea. I'll work the truth out of him. Until then, I have nothing to say to you.” She stared pointedly at his hands. “Or is coercion part of your assignment, too?”

McKay let his hands drop. Considering that Brandon had maneuvered McKay into this fiasco of a mission, it was only right that Brandon choose how much to explain. Carly had a right to know the whole picture since she was one of the probable targets.

“What, no protests? No soulful assurances that I'm wrong?”

“You're not in the mood to believe anything I say.”

Their bodies bumped gently, rocked by the water, and Carly flinched. “Get out of my way.”

McKay saw the pain in her eyes, glinting beneath the fury. She had trusted him, confided in him, and in return

he had brought her more betrayal. The knowledge left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, though his orders had been crystal clear.

She glared at him, clinging to the ladder. “Don't bother with excuses, McKay. More lies are the last thing I need.”

Water flying, she stormed up the ladder and was gone.

C
arly placed three tense calls to Nigel Brandon through the afternoon, only to learn that he was off island in back-to-back meetings. To her frustration, Daphne was also unavailable, courting potential sponsors for her foundation. On a hunch, Carly tried Inspector St. John, only to find that he was accompanying Daphne.

Carly sensed there was danger growing, and it infuriated her that no one respected her intelligence enough to discuss it with her openly and honestly. As soon as she snagged Daphne or Nigel, she meant to remedy that situation.

She spent the rest of her day in a blur of sketches, location planning, and general research on beach settings for future shoots. Narrowing the list of possible locations would help her plan visual themes.

Assuming that the whole project hadn't already been turned over to another creative team by then.

She drove the thought from her mind, working right through the afternoon, much to Archer's unhappiness. She managed to avoid McKay for a total of nearly four hours, though she heard his voice often enough to know he was never far away. In the late afternoon, Nigel Brandon's secretary phoned with his apologies, saying that he was still detained in meetings off island and would contact her as soon as he returned.

At sunset Archer knocked on her door and cast a disapproving eye over her open books, folded maps, and scattered paperwork. “Dinner will be served on the terrace in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Archer, but I'll just have some fruit here in my room.”

“That you will
not
do. I will not have Mr. Brandon accusing me of negligence in my duties.”

“But—”

“Seven-fifteen,” the majordomo said imperiously. “Since your Mr. McKay has been equally recalcitrant, he was given the same ultimatum.”

Carly wanted to snap that McKay wasn't
her
anything, but Archer had already gone back to the kitchen. Fuming, she closed her books and rummaged in her bags for well-worn blue jeans and an old tank top, refusing to primp before dinner. She ran a comb quickly through her hair, then strode outside, not bothering with shoes. By the time she reached the terrace, her nerves were raw and she was primed for a fight.

She came to an abrupt halt when she saw McKay's lean silhouette on the terrace, where he paced with equal aggravation. Tonight he wore nothing but black, his only ornament a narrow silver buckle at his belt.

Carly took a sharp breath and tried not to like what she saw. Even now she found it hard to resist the power of the man prowling at the edge of the candlelight. With a sigh, she straightened her shoulders and sauntered with cool arrogance over the flagstones.

The effect was spoiled when she slammed her bare foot against a wrought-iron candelabrum, staggered then caught her heel with a shrill yelp.

He was at her side in an instant. “Where does it hurt? Your stitches? Your leg?”

“My foot,” she rasped. “Just give me a minute here.”

He held her steady while he checked her foot. “No blood. No cuts. What about your stitches?” he demanded. “Any problems there?”

Carly could only shake her head, intensely aware of his body against hers—though it was the last thing she wanted to think about.

The wind murmured though the trees, cool against her flushed cheeks. McKay cleared his throat, then stepped away, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “It doesn't look serious.”

He started to ask her a question but stopped when Archer arrived with a tray. Five magnificent courses followed, each served with Archer's impeccable style and Paradise Cay's finest silver, while the tension stretched out between them.

They said barely five words to each other for the rest of the evening.

“Everything all right?”

Carly looked up from a big, sweeping romance set in fifteenth-century Scotland. Her eyes narrowed on McKay, who wore a loose black nylon jacket. His collar was turned up and he looked as if he'd just come from a run on the beach.

“See for yourself,” Carly said coolly. To her surprise, he did just that, checking the windows and bathroom. After that he closed and locked the French doors to her veranda.