A Match for Celia

“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?”