by Gina Wilkins
Not smart, Hollander. Damned stupid, in fact.
He was confident that he’d carried out his role believably enough during the afternoon. Celia had no reason to think he was anything other than what he’d told her he was—an ordinary tax accountant with a passion for history. She seemed to trust him.
But she still hadn’t given him any clue as to what she was doing at Damien Alexander’s resort while Alexander was taking care of business elsewhere.
The thought of Damien Alexander made Reed strengthen his resolve to keep his distance from Celia Carson. No matter how attractive he found her, no matter how invitingly she looked at him, no matter how seductively she walked or how intriguingly she smiled—he still had no intention of making a play for Alexander’s woman.
That, he reminded himself flatly, could only lead to disaster. Professionally—and personally, if he wasn’t careful.
When they left the fast-food restaurant, Celia mentioned that there was one other thing she’d like to do.
“What is it?” Reed asked, perfectly willing to indulge her.
Celia smiled and pointed to a gaudy, colorful place across the street from the burger joint. “That.”
Reed followed the direction of her pointing finger, then frowned. “Miniature golf?”
“Yes. Looks like a great course, doesn’t it? Look at that windmill. And the castle. I bet that’s a tough one.”
Reed was still frowning. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Haven’t you ever played miniature golf?”
He seemed to consider the question for a moment. “If I have,” he said at last, “I’ve forgotten.”
“Well, that settles it, then. We have to play. You can go home and tell your parents that you tried something new on your vacation. They’ll be delighted,” she assured him.
He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”
“Don’t sweat it, Reed,” she told him, tucking a companionable hand beneath his arm. “Everyone’s a little nervous the first time. But I promise, I’ll be gentle with you.”
She gave him a bland, innocent smile when he looked at her with suddenly narrowed eyes. She wasn’t sure how he’d react to the double entendre; she hadn’t been able to resist finding out.
Reed cocked his head, stroked his jaw, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’m yours. Take me.”
This time it was Celia who lifted an eyebrow in response to the unexpectedly sexy growl in which he’d spoken. “Er—”
“Take me to play golf,” he said, his smile wicked. “That’s what I meant, of course.”
She resisted an impulse to fan her suddenly warm cheeks with one hand. He really did have a tendency to surprise her at times, she thought.
In fact, there were moments when she wasn’t at all sure that he was quite as mild-mannered and innocuous as he’d seemed at first.
It was after eight that evening when they crossed the causeway again onto South Padre Island. Reed was behind the wheel this time, Celia having declared that she was tired of driving. As she’d expected, particularly after knowing him for a few more hours, he handled the powerful vehicle competently, confidently—and cautiously.
The same way he’d played miniature golf, she thought with a suppressed sigh. He’d slaughtered her at the game, even though he swore it had been his first time.
From beneath heavy eyelids, she studied the gleam of lights on the now blue-black waters of Laguna Madre. A mile ahead of them, the closely nestled buildings on South Padre Island gleamed brightly against the darkened Gulf horizon. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she murmured.
“In a glittery way,” he hedged. “I usually prefer a more natural landscape, myself. Moonlight on undeveloped beaches. A campfire glowing in a clearing in the middle of a forest. A fireplace burning in a cabin high up in the Rockies after a snowstorm.”
Celia lifted her head from the leather seat and stared at him. This didn’t sound like the pragmatic, history-buff accountant she’d spent the afternoon trailing at several historic sites. “Why, Reed,” she said. “You sound almost like a closet romantic.”
He shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. “Nah. I just meant I usually vacation in less luxurious surroundings. Padre’s got a lot to offer, of course, which makes it so popular. Did you know there’s evidence that the Karankawa Indians wintered here more than four hundred years ago? Which means the island has always been seen as an ideal—”
Celia interrupted him with a groan. “Please. No more historical tidbits. My brain is already on overload with all these perfectly useless facts.”
“Like what?” Reed asked, smiling.
“The Port Isabel lighthouse was constructed in the 1850s and abandoned in 1905. The construction of Fort Brown in 1844—”
“Forty-six.”
“Thanks. In 1846, then, precipitated the beginning of the U.S.–Mexican War. The last land engagement of the Civil War was fought at Palmito Ranch near Brownsville, a month after Lee’s surrender. The battle was won by Confederates who didn’t know the war was already over, and afterward the victors became the captives of their former prisoners. That was sort of interesting, actually.”
“I thought so,” Reed murmured, his voice underlaced with amusement.
“I know you did. You just ate that stuff up, didn’t you? I bet you made all As in history in school.”
“Yeah, but don’t ask about my grades in composition and literature.”
“I was good at math and sciences, but history always put me to sleep.”
“Then you had the wrong teachers.”
“Maybe I did,” she agreed, smiling at him. “You made it very interesting this afternoon. Maybe you should have been a history teacher instead of a tax accountant.”
Reed’s smile seemed to fade in the shadows. Before Celia could decide why, he shrugged and said lightly, “I thought about it. Then something more interesting came up.”
Celia lifted her head again. “Tax accounting is more interesting than teaching?”
He cleared his throat. “At times. Are you hungry?”
It took her a moment to switch gears. It had been several hours since they’d indulged in the burgers and shakes. Even now, she shouldn’t be hungry—but she discovered that she was. “Now that you mention it, I am rather hungry,” she said. “It’s hard to believe after all we ate this afternoon, but I could eat again.”
“So could I. Will you join me for a late dinner in the resort restaurant?”
“I’d like that.”
“Should we change first?”
Celia hesitated, thought about how grubby and windblown she felt after a day of sightseeing in a convertible, and nodded. “I’ll make it quick. Meet you in the restaurant lobby in, say, half an hour?”
“You’ve got a date.”
Celia swallowed in response to his wording. She hadn’t really thought of this as a date. For some reason it was easier to think of it as a friendly outing between two amiable acquaintances. She didn’t bother to correct him. It seemed better to just let it go.
Reed’s message light was flashing when he entered his room. His accommodations were nice, but much less luxurious than the suite Celia had been provided. He called the message desk, then dialed the number he’d been given, keeping one eye on the clock. He didn’t want to be late for his dinner date, he thought, as he listened to the faint buzz of the other phone ringing.
“Kyle Brown,” a familiar voice answered.
Reed didn’t bother to identify himself. “What’s up?”
“There’s been another delivery.”
Reed tensed. “Any leads?”
“Nothing new. All arrows still point to Alexander. Every major transaction we can trace during the past two years has taken place in an area where Alexander was conducting business. We’ve had two sources mention his name in anonymous tips. We have solid evidence implicating at least one of his employees. Rumor still has it there will be an important meeting on Padre Island somet
ime this week between Alexander and two of his current customers. Apparently, it was put off a few days because of the storm that damaged his resort in the Caribbean.”
“Leaving me cooling my heels here when I was expecting to be witness to the meeting two days ago,” Reed grumbled.
“As I said, there’s every reason to believe the meeting is still on when Alexander gets back there.”
“He’s due to return in a couple of days,” Reed said, repeating something Celia had casually mentioned during the afternoon.
“Yeah. Novotny’s discreetly making arrangements to be there.”
Reed felt the tension low in his neck, a sure sign that the case was nearing a resolution. All the major players were coming together, and he would be here when they gathered.
“The woman still there?”
Reed shoved a hand through his wind-tossed hair. “Yeah.”
“Keep an eye on her. She could be setting everything up on that end.”
“Or she knows nothing about any of this,” Reed cautioned.
“C’mon, Reed. We know she’s been seen several times talking to our suspects in her hometown. And she’s been photographed with Alexander on several occasions.”
“Dates, not meetings, as far as we know. As for her talking to the other suspects—well, it’s a small town. She’s lived there a long time, works in the town’s only bank. She probably knows everyone there. It could only be a coincidence that she’s been seen with our suspects.”
“Maybe.” Kyle sounded skeptical. “But you know how I feel about coincidences.”
“She’s spent the past few days taking walks and swimming and sightseeing. She’s hardly spoken to any of Alexander’s staff. No suspicious meetings. No mysterious disappearances. She claims she’s nothing more than a friend of the owner, here on a vacation.”
“If she’s nothing more than Alexander’s newest bed toy, why is she there now, when he’s not even in the country? Why would he want her hanging around when he’s about to set up a transaction of this magnitude?”
As much as Reed didn’t want to think of Celia being involved with Alexander’s unsavory sideline, he was even less enthused about hearing her referred to as a “bed toy.” He’d spent the whole afternoon with her, damn it. His instincts about people were usually directly on target. And all his instincts told him that Celia Carson was exactly what she appeared to be. Good-natured. Restless. A bit naive. Honest.
But—rare though it had been—he had been wrong before. “Damn,” he growled, wishing for a moment that he had become a history teacher.
“What’s the matter, Hollander? Don’t tell me you’re starting to share Alexander’s tastes in PYTs?”
PYTs. Kyle’s dry, uncharitable way of referring to the pretty young things that Damien Alexander had made a hobby of collecting and discarding. Pretty young women like Celia Carson.
Innocent bystander? Eager mistress? Or calculating business associate?
Reed found, to his self-disgust, that he wasn’t nearly as certain as he should be about which label best fit the woman he was meeting for dinner in fifteen minutes.
“I’ve got to go,” he said abruptly. “Anything else you wanted to tell me?”
“No. I’ll be there when Alexander arrives.”
“Right. See you then.”
“Have fun, Reed. But watch your back.”
Reed growled a response and replaced the phone. He wasted another few minutes cursing himself for forgetting, even for a couple of hours, the careful objectivity he’d always prided.
It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again during this assignment, he promised himself.
Dressed in a royal blue silk T-shirt and a gauzy print skirt, Celia entered the restaurant lobby only five minutes later than she’d intended. She didn’t see Reed at first, though she quickly spotted the resort manager, Enrique Torres, and his wife, Helen, who were entering the restaurant at the same time as Celia.
“Miss Carson.” Torres greeted Celia with an overbright smile probably reserved for VIP guests. “Are you enjoying your stay with us?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Torres,” she replied. Oddly enough, she meant it this time. She’d had a better time today than she had since her arrival. “Your staff is very friendly and efficient,” she added, because he still looked a bit anxious. “I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this resort to any of my friends for their vacations.”
His smile relaxed fractionally. “That’s very kind of you. Were you on your way in to the dining room?”
“Yes. I’ve been so busy sightseeing this afternoon that I’ve just now gotten around to dinner.”
That, too, seemed to please him. The guest was keeping herself entertained. He nodded toward his wife, who was chatting with another guest across the lobby. “Please, won’t you join us at our table? Helen and I will enjoy your company.”
“Thank you, but I’m meeting someone. As a matter of fact,” she added, when a hand fell lightly on her shoulder, “he’s here now.”
She smiled up at Reed, who returned the greeting with a slight nod. “Mr. Torres, have you met Reed Hollander?”
“Only briefly,” Torres replied, extending a hand. “Are you enjoying your stay with us, Mr. Hollander?”
Celia thought with a stifled smile that he must automatically ask that question of all his guests.
Reed shook the manager’s hand briefly. “I’m enjoying it more all the time,” he said.
Celia glanced up at him, to find him smiling down at her in a way that made his words somehow directed toward her. She felt her cheeks warm a bit, and quickly looked away.
Torres was watching them with a tiny frown between his dark eyebrows. “Er—well, enjoy your dinner. Please let me know if anything is unsatisfactory.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine, as always,” Celia assured him.
Torres managed another strained smile, murmured a good evening, and returned to his wife, giving them one last, worried look over his shoulder.
“He doesn’t like it that I’ve joined you this evening,” Reed commented.
“Don’t be silly. Why would he care?”
“Maybe because his boss wouldn’t like it?”
“Damien wouldn’t care, either,” Celia replied firmly, though she wasn’t as confident as she tried to sound. “Let’s go in, Reed. I’m starving.”
She slipped a hand beneath his arm, an almost defiant gesture that earned her a quizzical look from him and another faint frown from Torres. Reed didn’t say anything, simply put a hand over hers and led her to the doorway. He kept her hand on his arm as they were escorted to a table by the rather surprised-looking maître d’, who’d become accustomed to escorting each of them to tables “for one.”
Celia had just noticed how firm and muscular Reed’s arm was beneath his thin, white cotton shirt when they reached the table. Surprisingly muscular for an accountant, she mused as she slipped into her seat. Served her right for stereotyping.
The table was Celia’s favorite in the beautifully decorated restaurant, which was another indication of her preferential treatment, since the restaurant was fairly crowded on this Friday evening. The table was small, private, candlelit, set cozily into a bay window overlooking the Gulf. The full moon reflected softly off the rolling waves and nearly deserted beach. A night made for romance.
Celia glanced at Reed from beneath her lashes and tried to imagine Damien sitting across from her. Damien, with his thick, precisely-styled blond hair, his gleaming, dark-lashed blue eyes, his flashing dimples and killer smile. The image kept fading in contrast to the reality of the man sitting across from her. Reed Hollander, with his neat dark hair and grave hazel eyes, his horn-rimmed glasses and cautious smiles, his muscular arms and fact-crammed brain.
Reed, who was becoming more intriguing to her all the time.
She mentally shook her head. Talk about confusing situations! Here she was at this glamorous resort with tentative plans to begin an affair with a dashing, exciting m
an, only to find herself suddenly attracted to another man who was all too much like the men she’d left behind, the ones she’d thought too ordinary to interest her. And she was even less certain than she’d been before that she wanted to become intimately involved with Damien.
Now this was a moral dilemma!
“So, what’s your decision?” Reed asked from across the table.
Celia blinked at him over her menu, wondering if the man could read her mind. “I…er…beg your pardon?”
He nodded toward his own menu. “Have you decided what you want for dinner?”
“Dinner. Oh, yes, of course. I’ll—um—I’ll have…” She glanced down at the menu and read off the first entrée that caught her eye. “Baked snapper.”
“Sounds good,” Reed said, closing his own menu. “I’ll have that, too.”
They placed their orders, selected a wine, were served salads and bread. A noticeable silence fell between them when they were alone again. Celia found her eyes turning once again toward the inviting expanse of moon-washed beach. She could so easily imagine herself walking hand in hand along that beach in that soft moonlight. Problem was, she couldn’t seem to decide whose hand she’d most like to be holding.
“You’ve gotten very quiet,” Reed commented, reclaiming her attention. “Tired?”
“A little,” she admitted. “I was just noticing how beautiful the beach looks tonight.”
He followed her gaze. “It is nice. Would you like to take a walk after dinner?”
She almost choked on a bite of bread. “Maybe,” she murmured after taking a quick sip of wine.
“Tell me more about yourself, Celia. All I know is that you live in Percy, Arkansas, and you work in a bank. Have you always lived in Percy?”
