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.
“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.
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