by Gina Wilkins
She wasn’t going home, of course. Not just yet. Something was keeping her here.
She no longer even tried to convince herself it had much to do with her obligation to her host.
Chapter Nine
Celia dressed in bright colors the next morning, pairing a red silk shell with a bright purple raw silk vest and skorts and a red, purple and yellow tie belt. Her earrings were a tinkling cascade of red and purple stars and she wore a chunky red-stained wood bracelet and red flats.
Maybe, she thought with a final glance in the mirror, the bright colors of her clothing would detract from the paleness of her complexion. Nearly sleepless nights always left her looking rather washed out.
Though she’d hurried, she still reached the restaurant ten minutes later than she’d agreed to meet Damien there. She was greeted with the usual fawning enthusiasm and led immediately to Damien’s table. She was less than three feet away when she came to a sudden stop, her jaw dropping at the sight of the man sitting at the table with Damien and Mark Chenault.
“Chuck?” she said uncertainly, though there was no doubt of the man’s identity. “Chuck Novotny?”
The middle-aged man she’d known for years from her hometown seemed as startled as she was. He started to say something to Celia, then turned to Damien, instead. “What is she doing here?”
Standing to hold Celia’s chair, Damien lifted an eyebrow at Novotny in subtle reproof of the discourtesy. “Celia is my guest. I assume you two know each other.”
“Of course we do,” Celia explained, taking her seat. “Percy is a very small town, Damien. There are few people there I don’t know. Chuck’s a longtime customer of the bank where I work.”
Now that she’d had a moment to think about it, she realized why Chuck was at the resort. The Novotnys owned the spreading acres of lakeside property that Damien found most tempting for his potential Arkansas resort.
Everyone in town had speculated about whether Chuck would sell the land that had been in his family for many generations. Chuck was a shrewd businessman, notoriously miserly and money-hungry, but he was a very conservative, almost reactionary man who caustically, and vocally, rejected “modern values”—often in long, vitriolic letters to the editor of the statewide newspaper.
Celia had always gotten along well enough with the man—generally exchanging little more than distantly courteous greetings upon passing—but her brother detested Chuck. How many times had Celia heard Cody refer to Chuck’s ilk as “a bigoted, big-mouthed, small-minded bunch of fascist rednecks”?
Cody was usually the most laid-back and tolerant of men, his many friends made up of a widely diverse selection, but he was uncharacteristically intolerant of Novotny and his cronies. Celia, on the other hand, had always just considered Chuck a compulsive grouch—annoying, but basically harmless.
“Chuck’s here to look over the resort,” Mark explained, breaking the brief silence that had fallen over the table as Damien took his seat again. “Perhaps you know that he’s been a bit concerned that an Alexander Resort near Percy would disturb the natural beauty of the area and destroy the peace and tranquillity the local residents have enjoyed for so many years. We want him to see several of our resorts around the country, beginning with this one, to see that we make every effort to adapt to the traditions and environment of their settings.”
Celia thought Mark sounded like one of the PR brochures some ad agency probably composed for the chain. She couldn’t imagine what comparisons Damien could make between the rural foothills of her hometown and the glittery tourist mecca of South Padre Island, but she smiled and nodded as though she understood completely.
“It’s really a lovely resort, Chuck,” she said helpfully. “The staff is all very nice.”
Chuck grunted and gave her a glare of disapproval. Because he didn’t approve of women speaking? Celia wondered flippantly. Or—more likely—because he considered her a shameless hussy for being here as Damien’s guest, without benefit of a chaperon or a marriage ring.
Chuck couldn’t know, of course, that nothing had happened between her and Damien…and the narrow-minded, judgmental man wouldn’t believe her if she tried to tell him. Not that she considered it any of Chuck’s business whether she was sleeping with Damien and all his staff, for that matter.
Mark pushed his chair away from the table and waved to indicate his empty coffee cup. “Since we’ve finished our coffee, Chuck, why don’t you and I tour the facilities now and leave Damien and Celia to their breakfast? I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have about the operations of the Alexander resorts.”
“Aren’t you having breakfast?” Celia asked, having assumed they’d be dining together.
Chuck lifted one corner of his too-heavy mouth. “I had my breakfast several hours ago. I’ve never been one to lay in bed half of a morning, even when I didn’t have to work.”
Celia choked back a reply, settling for a slight nod.
Damien shook his head in dismay when they were alone. “Cantankerous old coot, ain’t he?”
Celia giggled at Damien’s bad Southern accent. “He is that,” she agreed. “But, as I keep telling Cody, he’s harmless.”
“Cody doesn’t care for the man?” Damien asked idly.
“For some reason, he despises him. Always has.”
“I see. I’m…er…sorry if it embarrassed you for Chuck to see you here. I’d forgotten to mention that he would be here. It never occurred to me that there would be any awkwardness attached to you both being here at the same time.”
It probably hadn’t occurred to him, Celia thought wryly. The women Damien usually dated probably never worried about chaperons and reputations—in fact, their reputations were considerably enhanced because they were sleeping with Damien. She assured him breezily that Chuck’s attitudes were his own problem and didn’t bother her in the least.
Apparently she sounded convincing. Damien smiled, patted her hand, then changed the subject. “So, what would you like for breakfast? I was thinking of having the chef’s special pecan waffles.”
Their waffles had just been delivered to the table when a stunning redhead sauntered past the table, her golden-tanned, five-foot-ten body shown to perfection by a clinging, shoulder-baring sundress. Damien stopped what he was saying in midsentence, his eyes riveted to the woman who gave him a sultry smile as she passed the table, ignoring Celia completely.
Amused, Celia watched as Damien suddenly recalled his companion. “Uh—sorry,” he said. “What was I saying?”
Celia glanced after the redhead. “Old friend?”
“No,” Damien admitted with a rueful smile. “I don’t know her. She must be a newly-arrived guest.”
“She seems to be dining alone,” Celia observed, watching as the woman was seated by the usually ultra-efficient maître d’, who seemed to be making an effort to keep from falling over his own feet. “Should we ask her to join us?”
Damien laughed. “You probably would, at that.”
Celia grinned. “I love watching men make complete idiots of themselves. Even when it’s some other woman causing them to do so.”
Turning his shoulder on the other woman’s table, Damien focused his full attention on Celia. “Now, darling, that’s not fair,” he said in his patented whiskey-smooth murmur. “I’ve been making a complete idiot of myself over you for months now, and look where it’s gotten me.”
“Nowhere?” she asked sweetly.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, smiling in satisfaction. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Hmm. You know, Damien, you were right. These waffles are heavenly.”
Damien laughed again.
Celia’s own smile faded when she saw Reed enter the restaurant. She hadn’t expected to see him this morning. He usually breakfasted earlier. She’d hoped he would do so today.
Meeting her eyes across the restaurant, Reed nodded impersonally, never slowing down as he followed the now brusquely businesslike maître d’ to
a solitary table near the redhead’s. Reed was wearing his glasses again, Celia noted, and his accountant’s casual wear of neatly pressed shirt and dark slacks.
Most women would probably be more impressed by Damien’s magazine-cover good looks and sharply tailored, latest-style clothing. Celia was beginning to think she wasn’t at all like “most women.”
“Your sightseeing friend, isn’t it?” Damien asked, proving he was as observant as she had been a moment earlier.
Celia deliberately dragged her attention away from Reed. “Yes.”
“Should we ask him to join us?” The offer seemed to be a sincere one.
Celia shook her head. She didn’t at all like the idea of sharing a table with Damien and Reed. “Let’s not.”
Damien looked pleased. “Good. I don’t want to share you, either.”
She realized that he’d misinterpreted her refusal, but she made no effort to correct him. Instead, she encouraged him to tell her more about his plans for the central Arkansas resort.
She succeeded nicely in changing the subject. Damien was always eager to talk about himself, and the resorts of which he was inordinately proud. Fortunately, he was never boring about it, and he encouraged her questions and comments, seeming to value her input.
Celia listened attentively, genuinely interested in the project which could be such a huge financial boon for her hometown area. She was satisfied that Damien never realized how often her gaze wandered to Reed’s table.
She was watching when the sexy redhead accidentally knocked over a full glass of water, spilling the contents over her linen tablecloth. The woman jumped up with a startled cry, narrowly avoiding having the water in her lap. Half the restaurant’s staff converged on the table to assist her as she stood there looking embarrassed.
Having been seated so close by, Reed stood and motioned courteously toward the empty chair at his table. Celia continued to watch as he introduced himself to her with the diffident smile she so easily recognized.
To Celia’s hidden dismay, the woman accepted Reed’s invitation to join him. Mike, the waiter Celia associated with especially helpful and friendly service, made sure the woman was comfortably settled at Reed’s table and took their orders, then left Reed and the woman to get acquainted.
“Your accountant friend is certainly quick to take advantage of an opening, isn’t he?” Damien asked, sounding both amused and admiring.
“Isn’t he, though?” Celia agreed curtly.
Damien lifted an eyebrow at her tone, but smoothly resumed the conversation about his tentatively planned resort.
Celia had to work harder than ever to pay full attention to her companion and keep her eyes away from the chatting couple across the room.
She saw them again later in the afternoon.
Damien was in one of the business meetings he’d warned her about, and Celia had taken the opportunity to rest in her room for a while before they were to leave for Matamoros. Tired, but not expecting to sleep, she lay on her bed and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, nearly two hours had passed.
Yawning, and considerably refreshed from the nap, she stood and padded barefoot to the window, letting the fresh breeze blow the remnants of sleep from her mind.
It was then that she saw the couple walking on the beach, deep in conversation. A tall, dark-haired man. A tall, flame-haired woman. Reed and the clumsy woman from the restaurant, Celia realized, her fingers going tight on the windowsill.
As Damien had said, Reed certainly wasted no time.
Celia’s temper flared. Had he given this woman the old “poor little me, I’m vacationing all by myself” routine? Had he passed himself off to her as a slightly shy, socially awkward type?
Was he planning on taking her to his boring museums and then making them seem far less boring, the way he had with Celia?
“That—that—” She sputtered, unable to think of a word scathing enough to fit her mood at the moment.
Reed and the woman had already passed out of her sight before she cooled down enough to think rationally. Why was she so furious? It wasn’t as if Reed was being disloyal to her. For all he knew, she was sleeping with Damien Alexander. He’d made it clear that he hadn’t liked it, but she’d made it equally clear that she wasn’t asking his opinion.
Now it seemed she was being paid in kind. Reed was a single, unattached male who had every right to get friendly with a stunning, drop-dead gorgeous redhead, if he was fortunate enough to manage it. Why should Celia hate it so much?
But she did. Oh, how she hated it!
She pressed icy hands to burning cheeks, appalled at the realization that had just hit her.
She was going to have to talk to Damien, she thought with a pang of reluctance. And she was going to have to make it soon.
She’d already taken advantage of his gracious hospitality badly enough. There was no excuse to prolong a flirtation that she now knew was going nowhere.
She’d come to Damien’s resort in search of what she thought she wanted, only to meet a man who represented everything she’d thought she didn’t want. How ironic that she had changed her mind now…when it might be too late to do anything about it.
Unable to stay alone in her room any longer, Celia changed into a soft cotton blouse and a long, tiered, printed-cotton skirt that seemed appropriate for an evening in Mexico. She brushed her hair and pulled it back with a bright bandanna for a headband and donned leather huaraches. And then she went in search of Damien.
He wasn’t in his rooms. Following her instincts, she headed for his offices.
The offices took up one entire wing of this building. A large, teal-and-cream area held desks for Damien’s secretaries, Evan and Maris, who were huddled over a stack of computer printouts when Celia entered. Both looked up when she came in.
Evan rose quickly to his feet. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Carson?”
“Don’t let me disturb your work,” she said. “I was just looking for Damien.”
“Mr. Alexander is in a meeting,” Maris explained coolly, glancing at the closed, heavy oak door that led into Damien’s office.
“Oh.” Feeling like an interloper, Celia took a step backward toward the outer door. “Well…just tell him I’ll be around whenever he’s ready for dinner, will you?”
Maris nodded and turned her attention back to her work.
Evan was a bit more courteous. With an apologetic smile, he explained that he and Maris were preparing for a large convention that was to take place at the resort the week after Thanksgiving. He offered Celia a cup of coffee, which she politely declined. She left quickly.
At loose ends, she wandered around the resort, watching the other guests, picturing the facilities invaded by conventioneers, finally ending up back at the koi pond that drew her so often. She watched the colorful, contented-looking fish and found her thoughts turning to her family.
In St. Louis, Celia’s mother was deeply involved with charities and her bridge club while her husband pursued his career as an adolescent psychologist. Back home in Arkansas, Rachel would be making plans for her wedding, which was to be held on New Year’s Eve. The children, Paige and Aaron, were in school, counting the weeks until Christmas holidays. Cody was busy with his work and his friends. Granny Fran was probably already baking for her annual, extravagant Thanksgiving dinner.
Hard to believe Thanksgiving was only a little over a week away, Celia mused, aware of the tropical heat around her. The whole family would be together then, crowded into Granny Fran’s house, as always. Aunt Arlene, who was a few years older than Celia’s father and had been widowed for many years, would come with her successful, plastic-surgeon son, Adam. Celia’s parents would fly in from St. Louis, and Cody, Rachel, Paige and Aaron would certainly all be there.
Rachel’s fiancé, Seth, would join them this year—a new member of the close-knit clan. That would probably be the only noticeable difference, Celia thought wryly. The menu would be the same as always—turkey and
dressing, homemade cranberry sauce, home-canned green beans cooked with pork seasoning, homegrown sweet corn, mashed sweet potatoes covered with toasted marshmallows, butter-dripping yeast rolls and a dessert table filled with pumpkin pies, pecan pies, coconut pies, chocolate pies. A diet counselor’s nightmare; a food lover’s dream.
Granny Fran would be happy as a pig in sunshine—as Frances herself would say—surrounded by her loved ones, thriving on their compliments of her weeks of preparation, assuring everyone it had been no trouble at all. Aunt Arlene would complain of her health and sigh delicately because no one truly understood her pain. Adam would make a few subtly barbed comments and try to hide his impatience to get back to work. Dad and Mom would fuss over their grown children’s health and shamelessly spoil their grandchildren, while Rachel kept a close eye on the kids and Cody played outrageous practical jokes on everyone.
And Celia—Celia would mingle and laugh and chatter as she always did, wishing she understood how she could be so happy and so restless all at the same time.
From a secluded corner across the resort compound, Reed watched Celia watching the fish. She looked lonely, he couldn’t help thinking. It was all he could do to keep himself from crossing the distance between them and taking her in his arms.
If only he could be sure…
His fists clenched at his sides when Celia was suddenly joined by two men, Mark Chenault and Chuck Novotny. The three fell into conversation in which Celia participated with apparent ease.
Reed knew exactly why Novotny was here—and it had nothing to do with selling property to Alexander Resorts. In reality, Novotny was the buyer, and weapons the merchandise. Reed wasn’t sure how deeply Chenault was involved, though he knew Chenault was Alexander’s trusted personal assistant and would probably do anything his employer requested. But what about Celia?
He was growing increasingly certain that there was no physical relationship between Celia and Alexander—at least, not during the past few days. Reed had been watching them very closely. Usually with clenched fists.
