She glanced back over her shoulder as they left the restaurant. Reed’s table was empty.
There was a corresponding emptiness somewhere deep inside her that she was finding increasingly difficult to ignore.
Though the others may have been prepared to party until dawn, Celia asked Damien to return her to the resort at eleven. “I’m exhausted,” she admitted, earning an indulgent smile and a smooth apology from him for attempting to do too much in one day.
She was rather startled when he kissed her at her door with more passion than he usually exhibited. His arms closed around her in a hold that made her more claustrophobic than responsive. They’d kissed before, of course, and she’d always enjoyed it. But tonight…
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, drawing away with an effort. “I’m really tired, Damien.”
Something flashed through his eyes that might have been annoyance. He replaced it quickly with compassion. “Get some rest,” he urged her. “We’ll meet for breakfast in the restaurant—say, nine o’clock?
“I have several meetings tomorrow, so I can promise you a slower pace,” he added with a smile. “Maybe tomorrow evening we’ll drive into Matamoros for a quiet dinner and to listen to some good mariachi music.”
“That sounds like fun. Good night, Damien.”
She closed herself into her suite before his response was fully out of his mouth. She stood there for a moment, listening. Damien’s footsteps faded down the hallway. He hadn’t gone into his own suite.
She let out a breath, feeling as though something had changed between them that evening. Perhaps Damien’s patience was running out.
She sensed that the time was rapidly approaching when she was going to have to make a decision once and
for all whether she wanted to become intimately involved with Damien Alexander.
She suspected that she’d already made that decision, even though she hadn’t yet found the courage to admit it. To Damien, or herself.
She took her time changing out of the emerald dress she’d worn for dinner, donning her nightgown, brushing her hair. Face and teeth scrubbed clean, she padded out of the bathroom to her bed.
The telephone caught her eye, and for a moment she longed to pick it up and call someone just to talk. Granny Fran. Rachel.
Reed.
She shook her head impatiently. This was ridiculous. How could she make up her mind about Damien when she couldn’t stop thinking about another man? One who was little more than a stranger to her, at that.
She crawled beneath the covers, sighed wearily and willed her heavy-limbed body to sleep.
She wasn’t successful. Half an hour later, her eyes were still wide open, focused unblinkingly on the darkened ceiling. Her mind swirled with doubts, questions, self-recriminations. She would never get to sleep this way, she thought impatiently, punching the pillow to vent some of her frustration.
Another fifteen minutes passed with excruciating slowness.
Finally, Celia muttered a curse that would have earned her a stern rebuke from her mother, threw back the covers and shoved herself out of the unwelcoming bed.
“This is stupid,” she muttered, but she dragged the nightgown over her head and threw on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
Maybe a walk alone on the beach would clear her head, let her mind relax so her aching body could do the same. Walking alone at midnight was perhaps not the safest thing to do—but wasn’t she here in the first place because she was tired of living cautiously and sensibly?
The beach was deserted, as she’d expected—and hoped. The wet sand looked black at night, especially when the moon played hide-and-seek with fast-moving clouds that hinted at rain. Sandals held loosely in her left hand, she walked along the surf’s edge for a time, letting the water lap over the tops of her feet. Unbound, her hair blew free in the stiff breeze. She used her right hand to hold it out of her face. The taste of salt was strong on her lips, the smell of brine and fish heavy in the air.
She closed her eyes for a moment and enjoyed.
The muted sound of men’s voices brought her eyelids up quickly. She looked warily around, tensing in automatic self-protection.
Two men were walking toward her, some distance away, apparently deeply involved in conversation. From what she could see in the moonlight, neither man was dressed for beachcombing; they both seemed to be wearing jackets and dress slacks and shoes that weren’t made for scuffing in sand.
She had seen them first, but they spotted her just as she recognized them. One was Mark Chenault. The other was a dark-haired, olive-skinned man Celia vaguely remembered seeing around the resort for the past few days—another guest, she’d assumed.
Mark spoke first, after a moment that seemed to hold taut surprise. “Celia? Is that you?”
“Yes.” She walked toward them. “Hi, Mark.”