Going Overboard (9 page)

He vaulted down beside her. “Definitely beats crawling though the mud in an Alabama swamp.”

“Are you from Alabama?”

His mouth quirked. “I don't believe I said that.”

“Secretive, aren't you? Not that it matters. You're rescuing Carly and her shoot. That's all I care about.”

“I still don't see how she's going to get the film from here to New York in time to help.”

Daphne slid her huge bag over one shoulder. “The wonderful world of modern electronics. She sent a digital proof file late yesterday from the ship. A second proof went off by express courier when we docked today. Now, if you could only get her to relax. With the pace she's keeping, she'll end up in a padded cell.”

“What makes you think she'd listen to me?”

Daphne stared at Carly, who was sorting lights and camera equipment in the back of a battered Jeep.

“Something tells me you can be very persuasive when you want to be. You've already managed to get her to exercise—something she's studiously avoided for months.”

McKay tried to hide a grin. “Is this called matchmaking, by any chance?”

“Perish the thought. She'd have my head. I'm just planting a friendly, good-natured suggestion.” Daphne's eyes narrowed. “And if she asks, this conversation never happened.”

“I'll keep it in mind.” McKay shook his head as Carly's assistant trotted away. Today Daphne was wearing skintight blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and diamond earrings, a bizarre combination that somehow worked on her. But her suggestion was pointless. No one could force Carly Sullivan to relax when she was in her professional mode.

And she certainly was today. She'd been sorting, guiding, and worrying since the crew had assembled at dawn. She was on her third list and her fourth cup of coffee and the actual shoot hadn't even begun.

McKay knew the feeling. It came to him every time a transport plane carried him to a jump zone for a mission. The trick was to tap the nervous energy and use it before it had time to eat a hole in your stomach.

Something told him Carly hadn't yet mastered that particular skill.

They'd work on it, he decided.

Meanwhile, she had him decked out in cargo shorts and a splashy Hawaiian shirt. The only way he could look more like a tourist would be if she loaded him down with a set of cameras. He scowled as she waved excitedly from the Jeep, where she was talking with a man in a dark suit.

Suddenly, as he crossed the beach, McKay felt a dead certainty that they were being watched.

The watched sensation crawled along his neck, one of a dozen survival instincts honed over long years of covert missions under deadly conditions. He forced his body to relax as he turned casually, his eyes flicking around him.

By the road, two women in straw hats walked a dog. A man was selling fruit from a wooden cart close to the base of the cliffs. Nothing seemed out of place. Casually, he scanned the cliffs, picking up no sign of movement, then continued across the beach.

Carly gave him a measuring glance. “This is Mr. Charles from the tourist board. He helped to coordinate today's shoot. This is Mr. McKay, our primary actor.” As the two men shook hands, she turned to the beach, looking worried.

McKay followed her gaze. “Something wrong?”

“The beach was supposed to be closed today. I don't like having to shoot around visitors.”

“Only a few are here,” the tourist official protested. “And the man who was to put up the signs had a puncture on his way from Bridgetown. I am making some calls, but it is difficult to close the beach now.” He trotted off to his car, cell phone in hand.

“I hate surprises.” Carly drew a long breath, then brightened. “You look wonderful. You'll start a rage for flowered shirts.”

“My secret ambition in life.” McKay tried not to fidget as she opened one more button at his collar and smoothed the bright cotton lapels.

“I don't know how you do it, but even in these clothes you look dangerous.”

McKay ignored the question in her voice as he pulled the heavy equipment bag out of her hands and slung it over his shoulder. “After you.”

She pointed up the beach, where spray shimmered over a single rugged boulder. “That's where we're shooting.”

The two women with the dog strolled past and smiled. The beach vendor cut up mangoes. Just another quiet day in paradise.

Except McKay knew that every paradise had its dark side. He was glad that Izzy had wrangled a free day and was somewhere nearby, silent and invisible backup, which was the best kind.

“The lighting looks just about perfect.” As Carly spoke, something flashed on the hillside behind her, once and then again.

McKay kept his face impassive as he tracked a blur of red up through the trees. To buy time, he caught Carly's hand while he studied the slope behind her.

“What are you doing?”

“Making you slow down,” he lied smoothly. “If you keep charging around in this heat, you'll crash before the shoot is done.”

She tilted her head. “You know a lot about heat and the tropics, do you?”

“Enough.”

McKay was a patient man when circumstances required it. He fingered the silver pendant at her neck, tracing the whimsical curve of stars suspended by tiny silver chains. “Nice work.”

Color touched her cheeks. “Too expensive, but I couldn't resist. The artist is M. E. Kincade.”

“Never heard of him.” He twirled the stars slowly, noting that there was no more movement from the trees.

“Her. She's an American jeweler based in Scotland. Now maybe you'll tell me why you're pretending to be so interested in my necklace when we both know you couldn't care less about mixed metals.”

“To slow you down.” He gave her a cool smile. “And to give myself the pleasure of touching you.”

“Forget the charm, McKay. I saw you watching the trees behind me.”

She was more observant than he'd realized. He lifted her pendant, tracing the delicate bits of silver. “Maybe I wanted to wish on these stars of yours.”

Her eyes were frankly skeptical. “You're hiding something, and I don't like it.” She pulled away, tugging primly at her shirt. “Can we get to work?”

Behind her a dusty bus lumbered around a curve and came to a shuddering halt. Seconds later waves of noisy schoolchildren flooded onto the beach.

Carly gasped. “Can you believe this? Everything was arranged. This beach was supposed to be closed today.”

“Looks like someone forgot to tell the kids,” he said dryly.

“I can't possibly shoot here now.” Carly stared at the darting children, a hand pressed against her stomach.

McKay watched her fingers flatten. “Steady. We'll work something out. Let's go corner your friend from the tourist bureau and check out options.”

Her face was pale in spite of the heat. “I need a minute. Just a minute.” She closed her eyes and dragged in a breath.

McKay rested his hand on hers where it lay against her stomach. “How long has it been hurting?”

“About five minutes. Since the school buses arrived.”

“No,” he said patiently. “I meant how long ago did your stomach problems begin?”

Her eyes snapped open. “What do you mean? What makes you think—”

“You're sheet-white.” He caught her wrist and shook his head. “Your pulse isn't the steadiest. All in all, I'd say you're steering yourself toward an ulcer.”

Carly's face closed down tight. “I appreciate your concern, but you're wrong.” She pulled away and started up the beach. “And I don't have time to discuss it.”

More children thronged the sand as McKay charged after her, scanning for possible threats. By the time he caught up, Carly was arguing with the official from the tourist board while Daphne tried to cut in.

“Just listen to me,” she said sharply. When silence descended she nodded briskly. “That's better. I know an incredible spot up the northeast coast, complete with cliffs and a waterfall. I'll have to make some calls, but I think I can arrange for us to use it for a few hours. The owner is an old friend of my father's.”

“How far away?” Carly demanded. “We don't have any extra time in the schedule.”

“About thirty minutes should do it. Why don't we go to the inn up the road while I contact the owner?”

“I'll take anything, so long as it's quiet.” Carly moved restlessly from foot to foot. “The waterfall sounds good. We could work that into a dramatic background pan. Let's try it.”

McKay watched her stride toward the crew gathered around their battered Jeep. Like Daphne, he was beginning to wonder how long she could keep up this pace.

“Carly, wait.”

She just kept walking, head down, deep in thought as she fingered the camera hanging around her neck. McKay cursed as he saw one of the school buses shudder into reverse and lumber over a row of old tire tracks filled with water from a recent storm.

But Carly didn't see.

He shouted again, sprinting forward and jerking her back with inches to spare as water and sand flew up from the big tires, drenching her face and shirt. Only her quick reflex in cradling her camera saved it.

“Wake up, dammit. You almost walked into that bus.”

She hugged her camera protectively. “I saw it.”

“Sure you did.” McKay took her arm firmly. “Come on. I'll walk you to the Jeep.”

Carly glared at him. “I don't need a keeper.”

“Don't you?” He kept his voice low, audible only to her. “You don't eat and you don't slow down. You push yourself to the very edge. I'd say a keeper is exactly what you need.” Concern had him itching to pull her close and shake her.

Color swirled into her face. She started to speak, then closed her eyes. “I do push myself.” There was desperation in her eyes when they opened. “A job like this doesn't come often, and if I fumble now, I may never get another chance. I need you, McKay. You're magic on film. I've never seen anything like it.” She managed a partial smile. “So don't tell me you're backing out, or I'll have to shoot you.”

“I'm not backing out,” he said tightly. “But when we get to the inn, you're going to eat something. And you're coming with me in the Jeep when we drive to this waterfall of Daphne's. No one else, understand? While I drive, you're going to rest. Not fidget, not plan, not worry or issue orders.”

Her first response was an angry protest. Then she closed her eyes and sighed. “Okay Sure, whatever.”

He motioned to one of the crew, who gunned the Jeep toward them over the sand.

“Did you find it?” she asked softly.

“Find what?”

“Whatever you were looking for up on the cliffs. I watch people, McKay. I see things. It's my job, remember?”

He kept his face expressionless, annoyed that once again she had noticed too much. It seemed her inattention was only for herself. “You must have sand in your eyes.”

The Jeep careened to a noisy halt. McKay helped Carly climb in, then turned weight centered, hands freed for action. He scanned the cliffs and the narrow road below. Dogs barked and children shouted, but no one appeared to be interested in Carly and her crew. Nothing at all seemed out of place.

So why had the stab of warning returned keener than ever?

Carly was pacing the upper bedroom at the inn even before Daphne began to dial. “How do we know the owner will agree? And if he does, will the location be good enough?”

“Trust me, you'll love it.” Daphne motioned sharply. “It's ringing.”

Carly tapped her fingers on a rattan table. “Why doesn't he answer? Maybe he's—”

Daphne straightened. “This is Daphne Brandon calling for Marcel. Is he available?”

Carly's tapping grew louder.

“I see. Could you have him ring me back when he finishes his meeting? It's quite important.” She rattled off the number at the inn, then hung up. “He should be finished in ten minutes.” She frowned at Carly. “Stop fidgeting.”

“If I don't fidget, I'll scream.” Carly glanced at her watch, fixing the time for the return call. “Maybe I should try to find someplace else while we wait. Or maybe I should—”

Daphne pointed toward a deep chair by the window. “Sit. Marcel will come through. He's one of my father's oldest friends.”

“We've barely got eight hours of daylight left. When is he going to call?”

There was a knock at the door, and Daphne strode across to open it before Carly could move. “Perfect,” she said, inspecting the tray carried by a young man in a bright cotton shirt. After she'd paid him and closed the door, she handed a plate to Carly. “Fruit. Soup. Tea sandwiches and conch fritters. Eat.”

“But I'm not—”

Daphne fixed her with a iron stare. “Eat every scrap or I won't answer the phone when Marcel rings. You'll be on your own.”

Carly snorted. “You and McKay should pair up. He pulled the same blackmail routine on me outside.”

“I'm liking the man more every second.” Daphne looked at her soberly. “Do you think I don't notice how you work yourself to a lather, then forget to eat? Do you think you're hiding how you clutch at your stomach and wince.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Like hell. This is Daphne you're talking to, remember? I know all your tricks, and I've tried to keep quiet while you charge around at a killing pace, but you're frightening me. We've both lost people close to us.” She took a harsh breath. “I couldn't bear to lose you. I couldn't.”

Carly's anger died in her throat as Daphne stormed to the window. For ten years they had been more than friends, more than sisters. Carly cursed herself for not seeing beneath Daphne's flippant cover to the concern beneath. “Round one to you. Now tell me what
else
is bothering you.”

“For starters, Father. When he isn't tracking me obsessively, he's sequestered with his top advisers. Something is going on, I know it, but when I ask, he brushes all my questions aside.” Daphne gave a dry laugh. “Then there's my amazing invisible fiancé.”

Carly stiffened. “When I saw David last winter he looked fine.”

“Oh, he's thriving. I just can't get him to thrive on my side of the ocean. He's in Switzerland or Paris three weeks out of four, and even when he's with me in Santa Marina, he's juggling some currency deal or other. I'd like to plan our wedding, but we can't find a date because his schedule is always changing. It's starting to be tiresome.”