Going Overboard by Christina Skye Page B

too painful. Even thinking hurt. “Who are you?”
    “Dr. Harris.” She released Carly's wrist and slid her stethoscope neatly into her jacket pocket. “We've stitched you up and given you something for infection and pain. You've lost a fair amount of blood, so Mr. McKay contributed a pint to help you out. Ms. Brandon was ready to slit her own wrist to help, but your types don't match. She was furious, in that well-bred way of hers. A good friend, I'd say.”
    Carly smiled at that. “The best.”
    “Mr. McKay is outside with Ms. Brandon right now. He doesn't drink coffee, he just scowls. He's frightening my staff to death.”
    “Was he hurt?” Carly was almost afraid to ask.
    “Completely unscathed. I think it angers him that he couldn't take a bullet for you. Interesting man.” Her eyebrow rose. “Macho, but interesting. He said a lot of things when he carried you in. Most of them do not bear repeating.”
    “He carried me in?”
    “He also maintained pressure on your side, cutting down on blood loss until the medics arrived probably saving your life. All in all, he seems like a good man to know.” The doctor's eyes crinkled when she smiled. “I'd better send in your friends, so you can stop worrying. Only for a few minutes, however.”
    Carly felt a sudden stab of nerves. “I need to brush my hair, and this hospital gown is—”
    “Don't worry, he's not going to see anything but your smile. You will smile, won't you?” The diminutive physician grinned wickedly from the doorway. “In my experience, good spirits make good medicine.”
    Daphne came in first, looking pale and edgy and trying to hide it. “It's about time you woke up. You always did know how to sneak out of a tight spot and leave me holding the bag. Or in this case the champagne bottle.”
    “At least you had good aim. What happened? Who were they?”
    Daphne smoothed Carly's pillow. “Too soon to tell. The police are questioning them now.”
    “How are Hank and the crew?”
    “A few bruises, and the grip was cut on the leg. Otherwise they're all fine. They're downstairs arguing about who gets to see you first.”
    Carly took Daphne's hand. “What about you?”
    “Only a bump on my arm, but I was terrified.” Her voice broke. “Don't ever do that again.”
    “Do what?”
    “Try to protect me, dammit. I know what you were doing.”
    “You think this had something to do with you and Uncle Nigel?”
    “I don't know what to think. I told you how he's been acting. Right now I'm angry and I'm scared. If anything had happened to you—”
    Carly squeezed her hand. “Let's not play what if.” She fought back a yawn.
    Dimly she heard footsteps, then the door closing. Sleep was working through the edges of her mind now that she knew the others were safe.
    But safe from what?
    The question drifted as sleep closed in.
    Carly awoke to shadows moving on the wall.
    McKay was sprawled in a chair beside her bed his sleeping face lined with strain. Beneath his unbuttoned jacket, she saw the edge of a leather holster.
    She closed her eyes, memories slamming through her. McKay crouched and pulled a gun from his bag, moving with no hesitation, as if violence was familiar to him.
    Who
was
he?
    She turned her head on the pillow. He sat up instantly, one hand snaking beneath his jacket.
    To reach his gun, as if by reflex.
    His face was hard and watchful, relaxing only after he had checked the room. “Welcome back.”
    She raised one hand, tracing his cheek. “You're cut.”
    “Dr. Harris tells me I'll survive.” His jaw was a tight line that betrayed no emotion. “Other people might not have been so lucky. Dammit, why didn't you do what I told you?”
    “I'm not used to taking orders. I'm not used to gunfire and armed attackers, either.”
    “You should have listened to me. Next time—” He shook his head.
    “Next time what?”
    “Just a figure of speech.”
    Carly knew she should follow up, but she was too tired to argue. Instead she