Going Overboard (7 page)

“You're serious about this, aren't you?” Carly resisted an impulse to tug at the form-fitting spandex.

“Absolutely. Your water's over there. Use it frequently. Hydration is the number-one rule.”

“Do you own a health club?” Carly asked suspiciously. “Daphne swore you did.”

He seemed to fight a smile. “No, but I spend a lot of time working out. Lie down,” he ordered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I'm not going to jump you, Sullivan. You need to warm up before we start.”

“Oh.” Mortified, Carly sank to one knee beside him. “I guess that doesn't mean hot chocolate with marshmal-lows?” she said wistfully.

McKay didn't crack a smile as he took her through leg lifts and stretches, then steered her toward a sleek steel treadmill. “Five minutes, no incline, just to get your heart rate up. We'll start you at a walk.”

“What's this ‘we’ stuff? I'm the one doing the work.”

“You'll be getting the benefits, too.”

“You're really into all this exercise stuff, aren't you?”

“Your body is your finest tool.”

“Funny, I always considered it my weakest link.”

But five minutes passed before Carly knew it. At the end of ten, she felt comfortably flushed, more energized than she had in weeks. “Okay, I'm pumped. Where do I sign up for kickboxing?”

“First things first, Champ.” McKay steered her to a machine with a padded seat. “Stomach crunches next. Hold, exhale, and tuck. Form counts.”

Carly stared at him. “Don't tell me you're some kind of personal trainer.”

“Stop procrastinating.”

She slid gingerly onto the seat, embraced the metal bar, and tucked as ordered.

“Good. Only forty-nine more to go.”

“Wait a minute,” she snapped.

“Just a joke. Keep your back to the seat. No sliding forward or you'll end up with pulled muscles.”

Carly huffed her way to ten and sat back with a gasp. “Since this was your idea, tell me what we've learned about each other, beyond the fact that you have an unhealthy liking for pain, especially when it's someone else's.”

He held out a bottle of water and waited until she drank. “I've learned that you can stay the course.” He handed her a towel for her face. “That you like a good challenge. Stubborn to the bone.”

Carly hid a smile. The man had her pegged. “Is that a fact? What else?”

He braced an arm against the weight machine. “You've learned that I have your best interests at heart and that I'm probably not going to jump you.”

There was absolutely no reason for her to be disappointed. “How do I know that?”

“Because if I'd planned to jump you, the sight of you in that sexy spandex would have clinched the deal.”

Carly felt a little light-headed. “I'm not sexy. I'm—”

McKay skimmed her cheek. “Sexy as hell, Sullivan. Case closed.”

He was suddenly too close, too calm. She felt a surge of relief when he gripped a horizontal bar and slid into effortless pull-ups. Carly lost count after fifty and simply indulged in the pleasure of watching the play and recoil of his muscles. “Are you in the military?”

“What makes you think that?” His voice didn't change as his body rose and fell, utterly controlled.

“Something about the way you stand the way you move. There's a sense you give off.” She frowned searching for the right word. “As if you're… ready.”

“It's something I pride myself on.” He dropped from the bar and tugged off his sweatshirt.

Sweat glistened on his chest. Carly stared aching for a camera.

“Ready for the bench press?”

“Probably not.”

“Here, slide in. I'll keep the weight low. This will help your camera work by building upper-body strength. Go for ten.”

“Sure, why not? All I can do is break both arms.” Despite an initial awkwardness, she was surprised to feel a pleasant heat in her arms as the bar rose and fell smoothly. “What do you do when you're not giving fitness lessons?” she asked between lifts.

“I keep busy.”

“Busy, as in investment banking? Car dealerships? Real estate?”

“I move around a lot.” He reached over and caught the bar. “No more. You don't want sore muscles while you're juggling lenses.” He laughed at Carly's expression of utter horror. “Don't worry, it's not going to happen.” He tossed her the water bottle.

“Are you in the travel industry, McKay?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what, exactly?”

He flicked his towel lazily. “Recently I've been developing deep-water rebreather technology.”

“As in scuba diving?”

“Close enough.”

She considered the answer. “So you're some kind of scientist or engineer or something.”

“Or something.”

“Are you with a giant corporation or are you in independent R&D?”

His lips curved. “Our corporation's pretty big. Our team is damned good at what they do.”

“Why do I get the impression that there's a whole lot you're not telling me?”

“I have no idea. Now back to the treadmill before you cool down.”

Before she realized it, Carly was on the machine beside him, easing into a comfortable trot while red lights raced over the elaborate panel. “I know some of these lights show speed and distance. What do the others mean?”

“If you can read them, it means you're still alive. That's always a positive sign.”

Carly huffed on. “You're pretty good at this stuff. If you ever want to become a personal trainer, you could probably make a fortune.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” he said dryly. “So how did you get started behind the camera? Did your mother show you the ropes?”

Carly ignored the sudden tension at her chest. “Now and again. Mostly I learned by watching.”

“You're good at that.” His stride lengthened. “Your mother must be very proud of you.”

Carly missed a step, then fought her way back into stride. “She's dead. I lost both my parents when I was fifteen.” Aware of his gaze, she concentrated on the flickering lights.

“I'm sorry.” His pace was effortless and unflagging. “You've got some amazing photographs. You must have wonderful memories to go with them.”

The red lights blurred for a moment. Carly punched the power button, slamming the machine to a halt. “She left me memories,” she said breathing hard. “Lots of memories.”

She grabbed her towel and stepped down, hating the pull at her chest. Hating the swirl of bitter thoughts. “I've had enough.”

“Stay.”

“I can't.” To her fury, her voice was ragged.

Without warning, she found herself pinned against a vertical bar. “Talk to me,” he ordered. “Don't turn away and go inside yourself.”

“I don't want to talk.” She swung out one arm wildly, fighting to break his grip. “Let me alone, McKay. Who asked you to—”

She fought back painful memories, furious to feel the bite of tears. Her pulse was hammering and her legs were shaky. “I don't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever.”

His hands settled gently at her face. “Why?”

“Because my past is no one's business.”

“I pushed. My fault.”

She stiffened as his knuckle skimmed her cheek. “I think we should go shower and change.”

“In a minute.” There was something hungry in his eyes, something that tore at her breath.

“You said you weren't going to jump me,” she blurted.

“Plans change. I like how you sweat, Sullivan.”

“Who's sweating?”

“Both of us, last time I checked.”

Her gaze fell to his lips. She wanted to run, but not as much as she wanted to feel that hard mouth locked on hers. She closed her eyes as he traced her jaw. His fingers tightened and she felt his tension as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Flustered she tried to pull away, shocked by the smooth slide of contact.

He eased a hand into her hair. “No more questions.”

Why did her pulse falter? Why did she let him take her mouth again and want him to take more?

“Bad idea.” She pulled away, struggling for calm. “Let's forget this happened.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “It's late and—”

He covered her mouth with one finger. “Stop running away from me. Stop fighting and let me see who you are.”

“What I am is sweaty, tired, and a mess.”

He shook his head slowly. “Brave, scrappy, generous. And you don't even see it.”

He swung around sharply as a key turned in the lock. The door was opened by a man in a white uniform, and Carly recognized the room steward she had met that afternoon.

“I have your dinner, sir.” He waved one hand over a cart laden with covered dishes. “Grilled shimp with fresh salsa and roasted asparagus. Where shall I serve you?”

“The table by the window should do fine,” McKay said dryly. “You're right on time.”

The steward's expression was bland. “Service is our highest priority, Mr. McKay.” He slid the dishes into place, then laid out linens and silver. “Will there be anything else? Things are a little busy on the floor tonight.”

McKay seemed to stiffen. “Busy how?”

“Ms. Sullivan's crew was celebrating today's shoot.

There have been quite a few beverage orders.” He sent a measuring glance at Carly.

“Exactly how many beverage orders?” she asked uneasily.

“Six bottles of champagne. Your crew seems to enjoy German beer, too.”

Carly sighed. “I'd better go.”

“No need to rush.” The steward scratched his jaw lightly. “Your assistant told them that if they wanted more champagne they would have to foot the bill themselves. She seems to have them in line. Before I left, she was dispensing imported coffee and reminding them they have an early call tomorrow.”

Carly had to smile at the idea of Daphne as den mother, but she knew from experience that Daphne made exacting work more fun than it had any right to be. She could charm the smile off a barracuda.

“Daphne can handle the troops. I promised you dinner.” McKay filled a plate for Carly, a rainbow of mixed salad greens. Next came shrimp salsa and asparagus. He lifted another lid. “I didn't order this sweet potato soufflé.”

“It looked excellent, so I added it to your cart, along with the chocolate eclairs. Enjoy.” The steward whistled softly as he headed to the door.

McKay studied the steward's back in exasperated amusement.

“He's got great taste.” Carly took a bite of the soufflé and sighed. “In fact, everything looks delicious. I suppose Daphne can take care of things for a little longer.” She paused over a wedge of avocado. “By the way, do you want to have a look at today's film?” She laughed at the wave of horror that crossed his face.

“You couldn't pay me enough.”

She rested a hand on his arm. “That makes your help especially kind, considering how uncomfortable you are at being photographed.”

“I'm discovering that it's hard to say no to you.” He filled his plate and sat back, the Caribbean a restless shimmer of indigo behind him. “Are you seeing anyone?”

This was the last question Carly had expected. She coughed and grabbed her wine. By the time her throat was clear, she could answer calmly. “No one in particular.” She tilted her head. “What about you?”

He studied a piece of escarole. “There have been one or two women.”

“Past tense?”

He looked up, unblinking. “Getting personal, Sullivan?”

“Shouldn't I? You started the twenty questions, so I figure I'm entitled to ask a few of my own.”

“Fair enough.” He looked out at the sea. “It was bad timing. Bad choices.” He swirled his wine. “Relationships require time, care, and patience, and my work keeps me on the move.”

He'd surprised her with a thoughtful answer and a hint of regret in his voice. “Tough luck.”

“If I'd wanted something more, I'd have found a way.” He snagged a slice of mushroom untouched on her plate. “What's your excuse?”

“The usual. No prospects when I had the time, and no time when I had the prospects. Having a demanding career is a wonderful method of birth control,” she said dryly. “Not that I've given any thought to children. Or marriage or anything else.”

“Some people find the time.”

“So I hear.” Carly began stacking plates neatly on the table. “Right now my time is up. I have film and props to organize.”

“What about the eclairs?”

“Tempting, but I'll pass. I've got to get back.” She pointed at the lacy green leaves on McKay's plate. “Don't you know that real men don't eat frisee?”

“So that's what it's called.” He took her silverware.

“I'll do that. Sit down and enjoy your wine.” He finished stacking the silver, then rolled the cart back to the door. When he turned, Carly was right behind him.

“You give fitness lessons and you clean up, too?” She put one hand over her heart. “I just might have to marry you, McKay.” She flushed. “Maybe I should have skipped that last glass of wine. It's going right to my head.”

He lifted the glass from her fingers. “Maybe it isn't the wine.”

“Oh no, I'm not falling into that one.”

McKay bent slowly, intrigued by the light in her eyes. “We all fall sometime, champ.” If she'd been his type, he might have been in danger of falling himself. Since she wasn't anywhere close, he simply enjoyed the sight of her face flushed with color.

Amused, he brushed her lips, savoring the gentle contact. Then he had a strange compulsion to try it again.

She raised her hand to his chest.

He caught it, bringing her palm to his lips and smiling at her faint tremor. The woman had no clue how responsive she was.

Slowly her hands climbed to his chest, and she gave a dreamy sort of sigh. Heat rocked McKay as she moved closer, exploring his mouth.

Suddenly there was no gentleness in what he felt, no logic and no clarity. He wanted that slim, ladylike body quivering beneath him, lost in the same sensual haze that he was fighting. He wanted it absolutely and without question.

Damned odd, considering that she wasn't his type at all.

When he eased away, she sighed, seeking him with her pliant body. It took far more control than he expected not to pull her back into his arms and feast.

“Carly,” he murmured, enchanted by her warm oblivion. “Back to earth, champ.” He whispered the words against her hair simply so he could smell her perfume and feel the soft slide of her body.