Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

      The Cessna’s motor turned over. The models were aboard with all their gear, and the pilot was checking his equipment.

      “What’s he doing?”

      The Cessna began to pick up speed. Miki felt a sudden sharp uneasiness at how isolated they were on this speck of an island. “They’re leaving ahead of us? I thought we were flying out together for safety.”

      “If you do your job, we’ll be flying out in a few minutes.” Vance glanced at the older pilot, and a silent signal seemed to pass between the two men.

      “What do you mean, do my job?” Miki frowned at Vance. “I think we’ve got enough background shots for ten calendars.”

      “You think? Who’s paying you to think, babe?” Sunlight burned on Vance’s yellow silk shirt as he traced Miki’s neck. “The sooner you stop whining and start shooting, the sooner we take off.”

      “You can’t let them go ahead of us, Vance.”

      “I just did, babe. Move it because your stalling is costing me money.”

      No point trying to change his mind. After three weeks of travel in close quarters, Miki had figured out that the man was impossible. She stalked over the sand and leveled Vance’s Nikon, trying to ignore the roar of the other Cessna as it prepared for take off. Palm trees waved, the ocean glittered—and clouds piled up to the south.

      Miki couldn’t shake a sense of unease. When she finished two dozen new shots from different angles, she gritted her teeth and turned back to her boss. “I’m done here. Why don’t you take a look so we can go?”

      “Cool your jets, babe.”

      Babe? If Miki never heard that word again, she would die a happy woman. Was it stupidity or arrogance that made men think women actually liked that name? Of course, Babe was better than Blondie. For the last five years, Miki had dyed her natural blond hair to a streaky brown in order to shield herself against the wrong kind of male attention. From bitter experience she knew that being blonde automatically took off five years and ten pounds. The only problem was that being blonde also knocked fifty points off your I.Q. in the eyes of most men. Some women seemed happy with the tradeoff, but Miki wasn’t one of them. So why the hell was she back to bubblehead blond now?

      When she’d heard about the team shooting an exotic calendar called Best Beaches of the World, Miki had instructed her photo agent in Santa Fe to accept the offer with no negotiation. At first her agent had been discouraging. “Waste of time, Fortune. Vance Merchant only hires blondes because he thinks they’re good luck.” The agent had rolled his eyes. “That means all blondes, all the time. Besides, Merchant is a little hard to work with.”

      Miki was too enthusiastic to let the offer slip away. That same day she had dyed her hair to its original streaky gold, angry but determined to snag the job.

      Unfortunately, her agent had neglected to mention several details. For example, Vance Merchant’s interest in blondes usually took on touchy-feely overtones by the second day of a shoot, and Miki soon tired of dodging the producer’s fast hands. Between the constant travel and the isolated location shooting, she could never seem to escape him.

      Not that she would whine. She could handle a weasel like Vance Merchant. The trick was finding a way to rebuff him without costing her the job.

      All her irritation snapped into sharp focus as she waited for the balding California millionaire to amble across the beach in his $800 handmade Panama hat. When she held out the camera, he moved in close, pressing against her shoulder while he looked into the LED screen.

      Miki controlled her irritation by imagining a few more zeroes in her bank balance. “So what do you think?”

      “Nice cloud detail. But I keep telling you, we’re here for the sex and the skin. That’s what sells, not your artsy nature shots.”

      Miki bit back a hot answer, reaching for the camera, but Vance moved out of reach. “You screwed up Jasmyn’s close-ups today. Where’s the mineral oil I told you to use on Jasmyn? There’s no shine, no sizzle. Are you a total idiot?”

      I’ll give you shine, Miki thought. “Vance, you didn’t tell me—”

      “Can it, babe. I need a dozen more windward shots across that slope. Then I can crop and insert some shots of Jasmyn later in post-production. Get to it.”

      “Now?” Miki started at him in disbelief. The other Cessna had taken off five minutes ago and the dark clouds were getting closer. Was the man crazy?

      “Are you coming or not?”

      She ached to tell Vance where he could put this job and his expensive Nikon, but somehow she swallowed her pride and nodded. Why did all the good jobs come with jerks in charge? Was there something wrong with her?

      “Fortune, are you listening to me?”

      “Yeah, sure.”

      Vance muttered as he vanished behind the low sand dunes. As soon as Miki crossed the slope, she saw a shirt spread out on the ground. Vance was standing beside it, tugging at his belt.

      She went absolutely still. “What are you doing?”

      “Don’t be so damned uptight. It’s just sex, something to loosen you up and get your creative juices flowing. I saw you staring at Miss Finland and the hunk. All that noise got you excited, didn’t it? You want it.”

      “Excuse me?”

      Vance’s belt hit the sand. “You’re wasting time. Get naked.”

      “You’re nuts as well as a creep. The only thing I’m doing is boarding that plane. You handle the sex by yourself. I figure you usually do that anyway,” she added grimly.

      “In that case, you’re fired.” Vance made the little Donald Trump hand gesture, his voice icy. “Take your choice.”

      Did he always get away with this, Miki wondered? Didn’t people file lawsuits for this kind of behavior? As the tropical wind ruffled her hair, she saw her career going up in smoke and was too angry to be diplomatic. Enough was enough. What she did next was for her and all the other women Vance had suckered over the years.

      She kicked sand toward him, pleased when he yelped with surprise. While he was distracted, she followed with a roundhouse kick from one of her many hours of classes. She wasn’t coordinated, but her blow to his ribs got the job done, making Vance gulp, caught in midcurse. He lurched sideways and landed face down in the sand.

      A noise drew Miki’s gaze. She saw the first Cessna circle high, dipping its trim wing once before heading east. The plane’s receding outline left her with the cold feeling that she was cut off from civilization, stranded forever.

      And this wasn’t a reality show. This was her life.

      Grabbing her camera bag, she sprinted for the remaining plane, ignoring Vance’s threats. Get in line, she thought. She had car payments due, credit card bills to pay and now she’d blown her best job in months.

      Sand hissed behind her. The millionaire producer huffed over the sloping crest of the beach, red-faced. There was a fresh bruise on his flabby right shoulder.

      “You’re through, Fortune. There’s no city small enough for you to hide. Forget about taking pictures for a living. Forget about portraits or calendars or greeting cards. You’re over, honey. I’m going to see to it personally as soon as I get back to L.A.”

      Miki resisted an urge to hit him again, instead dredging up a cloyingly sweet smile. “If I’m over, then it won’t hurt me to file a nice sexual harassment suit against you, will it? Won’t that look lovely when it hits the papers? You sell a lot of calendars in college bookstores, don’t you? I’d say your sales are going to tank when the female students hear about your problem keeping your pants zipped.”

      Vance’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “You little bitch. You are dead as far as new photographic