A Match for Celia

“You don’t think his bodyguard will tell him he saw you together outside her room?”

Realizing that Kyle must have been watching him all evening, Reed scowled furiously. “Damn it, where were you? And why were you spying on me?”

His partner responded in a heated whisper. “You’re risking everything, Reed! Perrelli’s here, Novotny’s here, Alexander’s finally here—everything is in place for the exchange we’ve been expecting for weeks. One wrong move on our part, even the slightest reason for one of them to get nervous and call the whole thing off, and we’ve blown weeks of work. Do you want that to happen because you’ve started thinking with your gonads instead of your head? Are you trying to screw up the whole deal just to keep one PYT out of jail?”

“She’s not involved with this, damn it! And stop calling her—”

“Will you keep your voice down!” Kyle hissed, reminding Reed that they were hardly in an ideal place for a conference.

Reed managed to rein in his temper. “I’m going to bed,” he said evenly. “We’ll finish this tomorrow. But get one thing straight. Celia isn’t a part of this. She’s an innocent bystander—a civilian—and we’re keeping her out of it. If you do one thing to jeopardize her safety, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Kyle challenged, as coldly as Reed.

“I’ll quit.”

There was a long, tense pause. When Kyle spoke, it was in a different tone. “You’ve fallen that hard?”

“I’ve fallen that hard,” Reed replied evenly, and without embarrassment.

Kyle took a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. “All right. I’ll do what I can to help you. But I hope to God you’re right about her, Hollander.”

“I’m right.” Reed had never been more certain of anything in his life.

Without another word, Kyle vanished noiselessly, expertly into the shadows. Reed went to his room.

He spent a very long, restless night, remembering the way Celia had looked, the way she’d felt, the way she’d responded when he’d had her beneath him for that all too short time.

The maître d’ was busy with another guest when Celia arrived in the restaurant the next morning. She was greeted, instead, by her favorite waiter. “Good morning, Mike,” she said with a smile.

His own smile was bright, friendly, natural—a nice contrast to the fake smirks the overly efficient maître d’had perfected. “Good morning, Ms. Carson. Are you joining Mr. Alexander’s party for breakfast?”

“His party?” Celia repeated. She had thought Damien would be waiting for her alone.

She peeked into the dining room and saw that Damien sat at a large table in one corner with Mark, Evan, Maris, Enrique and two other people she didn’t know, but recognized as employees of the resort. Damien was talking, the others were listening intently.

“That looks like a business meeting,” Celia said, moving back a step. “I don’t think I’ll interrupt.?

??

“Mr. Alexander assured us that you were to be brought to his table when you arrived,” Mike said.

Celia shook her head. “I’d rather—”

“—have breakfast with me.” Reed stepped smoothly to her side and finished the sentence for her.

Celia smiled up at him, hoping their interested observer couldn’t tell that her heart rate had just gone into double time. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” A total stranger could surely hear the special warmth in Reed’s voice, would probably recognize the seductive glint in his hazel eyes, even behind the lenses of his glasses.

Celia, of course, didn’t miss either. Her breathing accelerated along with her pulse. Why couldn’t he look at her like this when they were alone, darn it? When she could do something about it?

Mike was watching them with a grin that he hastily suppressed when she glanced at him. “I could show you to a table for two,” he suggested. “Or—”

He glanced around them and lowered his voice. “There’s a great little place just a short way down the beach. The Sandcastle. Flakiest pastries on the island—but don’t tell anyone I said so, of course.”

“Sounds good to me,” Reed said promptly, and held out a hand to Celia. “Shall we?”

Celia looked from him to Damien, who was still absorbed in his meeting and hadn’t seen her. She was torn between what she felt obligated to do, and what she wanted to do. For one of the few times in her life, self-interest won out over deeply ingrained Southern manners. “I’d love to,” she said, and placed her hand in Reed’s.