“Celia.” He took her shoulders in his hands. “Will you go home? Tomorrow morning, before he arrives?”
Bewild
ered by the sudden change in him, Celia shook her head. “I—I can’t, Reed. I told him I’d be here.”
He dropped his hands. “Then I guess I’ll see you around. Maybe.”
“Reed,” she said when he turned toward the door. “Don’t do this.”
He looked over his shoulder, first at her and then at the flamboyant bouquet. “You’re going to have to make a choice, Celia. You know where to find me. If you want me.”
With that, he was gone.
And Celia began to cry.
He’d been a jealous idiot. Again. Reed paced restlessly down the beach, oblivious to the fragrances or the sounds or the moonlight that had seemed so romantic before. Now they only reminded him of Celia. And of how stupidly he’d acted with her.
Darling. The words of the note had emblazoned themselves on his mind. I can’t wait.
How could Celia fall for that crap? Was she really so utterly unaware of the kind of man Damien Alexander was? Had she had so little experience with men that she didn’t recognize a slick, well-practiced line when she heard one? And how the hell could she fall into his arms the way she had today when she was still planning to spend the rest of the week with Alexander?
He’d known plenty of women who didn’t mind dallying with one man while waiting to warm the bed of another. He just couldn’t make himself believe Celia was like that.
What did she want? Why was she here? Why did she tremble when he touched her if she was thinking of someone else?
But she hadn’t been thinking of Alexander tonight, Reed thought with a sudden vicious satisfaction. Until she’d seen those flowers, Alexander had been as far from her thoughts as he was from her presence. She’d been thinking only of Reed.
And he’d blown it. Again.
He should have stayed with her. Made love to her until she couldn’t even imagine being with anyone else. Until she hadn’t the strength to say any name but Reed’s.
And then, first thing tomorrow morning, he’d have put her on a plane headed for Little Rock. Toward safety. And when this was all over, no matter what she’d done, no matter how deeply involved she’d been to this point, he’d have followed her. And made sure that from now on, any trouble she got in would be with him.
He turned impulsively toward her rooms, deciding to do just that. And then he stopped and slammed a fist into his hand, knowing he wouldn’t.
He remembered the look in her eyes when he’d stormed away from her.
And he remembered every word of that damned note.
He muttered a curse that echoed eerily on the deserted beach. And then he began to pace again.
Chapter Seven
Celia woke with heavy eyes the next morning, after a restless night’s sleep. She wasn’t at all pleased with the reflection that met her in the mirror. She looked worn, dispirited—sad.
She didn’t look like a woman taking a carefree vacation, that was for sure!
She didn’t want Damien to find her looking like this when he arrived. He would only ask questions, and Celia didn’t know what she would have said to reassure him. What could she tell him? That she’d met another man while Damien was away? That she’d suddenly found herself falling for the guy, even though she knew he wasn’t right for her? That she’d all but thrown herself into his arms, only to have him throw her right back out of them?
She’d cried from embarrassment and confusion and weariness, she told herself firmly. Certainly not from any deeper or more serious reasons. Her pride had been bruised, but her heart was intact.
Or, at least, that was what she told herself as she climbed defiantly into the shower and turned the water directly onto her tear-streaked face.
Damien arrived early that afternoon, accompanied by his usual entourage. The group included Maris Cathcart, a loyal secretary in her late forties who often traveled with Damien; Jim Bennett, a very large man usually introduced as head of security, but whose primary function was that of bodyguard; and Damien’s “right-hand man,” Mark Chenault.
They had all met Celia during business trips to Arkansas. Maris greeted her with the distant politeness that Celia had always suspected hid a streak of jealousy. Jim nodded and mumbled something unintelligible—his usual form of conversation. Mark displayed the rather condescending indulgence he always showed her. She had never really liked him, though Damien had repeatedly assured her that Mark was invaluable to him.
His thick, gold-tipped hair attractively disheveled, Damien flashed the brilliant smile that so often graced the society pages. His dimples deepened, his teeth gleamed, his blue eyes sparkled; Damien Alexander was a man who almost pulsed with energy and enthusiasm. And wealth, and power, both of which he seemed to take casually for granted, even as he wielded them so skillfully.