“Damn it,” Reed growled. “I wish we could be sure whether he’s involved in this or not.”
Celia looked at him with a quick surge of hope. “You aren’t sure?”
“All we have to this point are rumors,” Kyle admitted. “Circumstantial evidence. Deliveries at locations where Alexander and his entourage have been. Business meetings scheduled in close proximity to survivalist groups who are in the market for weapons—such as in your area of central Arkansas. We know some of his people are involved, but if he is, he’s kept a damned low profile.”
“You mean, Damien may be completely unaware that there’s gunrunning going on in his organization?” Celia asked, just for clarification.
“He has to be involved,” Reed told her coolly. “Do you really think his staff could carry on something like this right beneath his nose?”
Celia thought about it a moment. “Yes,” she answered simply.
Reed snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”
“No, Reed, I’m serious. It’s entirely possible. Damien trusts his staff completely—especially Mark Chenault. He fully believes in delegating responsibility to leave him free to handle the big stuff. I’ve heard him say it dozens of times. He doesn’t question every move his staff makes, wouldn’t monitor their every activity unless he had reason to suspect something. And maybe he hasn’t had a reason before now.”
“Let’s just watch him for a few minutes,” Kyle suggested. “Maybe he’ll do something incriminating.”
“Like what?” Reed asked sarcastically. “Use an Uzi for a bookmark?”
“Why don’t you just ask him if he’s involved?” Celia asked reasonably.
Even in the dim lighting that reached their hiding place, she could see that the looks Reed and Kyle gave her were the same they might have given a naive, and rather simple, child. And they infuriated her.
Without responding to Celia’s suggestion, Reed turned back to Kyle. Moments later, they were arguing about what to do next, the quarrel conducted in curt whispers.
Hands on her hips, Celia watched them. She didn’t know what it was these two did, exactly, or who paid their salaries—though she was beginning to suspect she did—but at the moment, she wasn’t overly impressed.
She looked back at Damien’s window. While she watched him, he smiled at something he read, turned the page, scratched his chin and kept reading.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, knowing that no one was listening to her. “Damien’s no more a gunrunner than I am.” Why would he be? She knew for a fact that he wasn’t particularly interested in political or social causes. He had more money than God, already. He was too unrepentantly self-indulgent to risk spending time in prison, which he would probably detest with every atom of his pampered being.
He was adventurous, but he took his chances in sports—mountain-climbing, skydiving, racing motorcycles. He worked very hard to make his resorts successful, taking pride in their popularity. He wouldn’t throw it away just for kicks, which had to be the only reason a man of his resources would get involved in something like this.
She wavered there in the darkness for a moment, feeling rather alone and a bit scared. What if she was wrong?
Her answer came from that same courageous corner of her mind that had made her believe in Reed.
She wasn’t wrong about Damien.
Straightening her shoulders, she headed for his door, leaving Reed and Kyle still plotting behind her.
She heard Reed hiss her name just as she reached the glass-paned French door that led from Damien’s suite to the beach walk. It was too late for Reed to stop her from tapping on the door. “Damien?” she called softly. “It’s Celia.”
Reed had been racing toward her, but he ducked back when the door suddenly opened. Celia could hear his muttered curses drifting on the air, and knew she was in for a heated lecture later.
She would worry about that when it became necessary.
“Celia?” Damien couldn’t seem to believe that she was outside his suite in the wee hours of the morning. “What the hell? Is something wro
ng? Are you all right?”
He was already pulling her inside, his expression so worried, his tone so sincere that Celia knew again she had to be right about him.
“I’m fine,” she assured him. She left the door ajar behind her and kept Damien close, her voice clear enough to carry outside, but no louder than usual. “I have to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked again, his blue eyes searching her face. “Is it that Hollander guy? Has he done something to upset you? If he has, just tell me. I swear I’ll make him sorry he ever—”
Though Celia had let him ramble for a moment—she figured Reed deserved to hear that—she stopped him then by placing a hand on his arm. “It’s not that, Damien. It’s something else. Something I overheard. And I’m afraid it’s going to upset you.”