Free Going Overboard by Christina Skye Page 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