A Match for Celia

“Going in for breakfast?”

“No, I had breakfast in my room this morning.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Oh.”

It occurred to her that he was probably thinking she’d had breakfast with Damien. She automatically opened her mouth to dispel the notion, then changed her mind. It was none of Reed’s business whether she’d breakfasted alone, she reminded herself. So why was she feeling so damned defensive about it?

He glanced down at the floating sundress she wore over her bathing suit. “Big plans for today?”

“We’re going parasailing, I think,” she said wryly.

“Parasailing.” He repeated the word with a slight lift of one eyebrow.

“It sounds exciting.” She had flushed again, remembering how he’d teased her for being a bit wary of the water when she’d gone into the Gulf with him.

But Reed only nodded. “Much more exciting than another war museum, I suppose. Or miniature golf.”

She moistened her suddenly dry lips. “Reed—”

He took a step away. “I have a few things to do this morning. Have fun.”

The hand she’d instinctive

ly lifted toward him fell to her side. “Thank you,” she said tonelessly.

He started away, paused, then looked over his shoulder. “Celia?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

She watched him walk away, looking almost as though he’d regretted the words. What had he meant by them? That he wanted her to be careful parasailing?

Was she only imagining that there had been some deeper meaning behind the warning?

“Celia! There you are.” Damien joined her with a broad smile, looking like a model from a catalog in his swim shorts and sporty T-shirt, a jaunty cap on his golden head. “Ready for adventure?”

Celia glanced one last time at Reed’s disappearing back, then turned determinedly to Damien. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose I am.”

Celia had thought museum-hopping with Reed had been wearing. That was before she spent a day with Damien, the sports fanatic. The guy was tireless. He was almost fifteen years older than Celia, but it was all she could do to keep up with him. She’d thought tennis and swimming kept her in decent shape—but Damien had the body and the stamina of a teenager. He only laughed good-naturedly when her endurance—or her courage—deserted her.

Celia’s legs felt like wet spaghetti by the time they returned to the resort to change for dinner that evening. Damien was still a bundle of energy.

“What would you like to do tonight?” he asked as they parted at her door. “Dancing again? There’s a great disco where the young crowd hangs out. Much less sedate than the lounge we visited last night.”

Celia wondered what he would say if she told him she thought she’d spend the evening in the whirlpool bath with a nice, dull book. Instead, she smiled and said, “That sounds like fun.”

“Great. We’ll go after dinner.”

She forced a smile. “Great.”

He kissed her quickly, told her he’d meet her in an hour and a half for dinner, then headed for his own suite, whistling what Celia thought was an old Bee Gees disco number between his teeth.

Celia walked straight through the sitting room of her suite, entered the bedroom, and fell facedown on the bed, not caring that her clothing was still wet, sandy and salty. Damien could certainly afford to replace the bedspread, if necessary.

Funny, she’d never noticed until she’d shared an entire day with him that he spent a great deal of time talking about his own wealth. Someone less charitable than she might have even called it bragging.

Not that she hadn’t had a good time. It was just that occasionally with Damien she felt like little more than another part of his entourage of bodyguard and boat crew, secretaries and yes-people.