by Gina Wilkins
She pulled a knit top over her head and laced her bare feet into leather sneakers. She slipped her room key into the pocket of her jeans as she left the suite by way of the long, blessedly empty hallway.
Chapter Thirteen
Even as she dressed, she hadn’t paused to ask herself why she was doing so, where she intended to go. Once outside, she headed straight for that bench beneath the scraggly palm trees. She wasn’t checking on Reed, she assured herself. She just didn’t want to lose the scarf Granny Fran had given her.
She couldn’t have said why she found herself staying in the shadows as she crossed the compound, avoiding the pools of light cast by the many overhead security lamps. She’d certainly spent a lot of time roaming these grounds in the middle of the night, she thought wryly. Which wasn’t at all the sort of adventure she’d had in mind when she’d arrived.
She was just rounding the end of her building, near the storage area, when she heard men’s voices. She stopped, knowing she was hidden from view of the speakers. It was only sensible, she told herself, to find out who was there before she blundered into their sight.
One of the voices was low, unintelligible. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite identify the speaker. The other man spoke then, more loudly, his voice slurred. This voice she recognized immediately. It was Chuck Novotny, and he sounded angry. And probably more than a little drunk.
She pressed closer to the building, curious about who Chuck was so angry with.
“You said everything was ready,” Chuck was saying, his thick voice laced with accusation. “You said all I had to do was show up here, look over the merchandise, put down half the cash and then go home and wait for a delivery. What the hell is the holdup?”
The other man said something in that same low, soothing, unrecognizable voice.
“That’s your problem!” Chuck responded wrathfully. “I handled my part. I got the money. But this crap you’ve been showing me is not what I ordered. I could buy weapons like this in any back alley in Little Rock. You promised me heavy-duty artillery, damn it, the stuff from Brownsville. And I ain’t paying for anything less.”
Celia heard the other man frantically trying to quiet Chuck. She was pressed so hard against the building now that she would probably have a permanent brick imprint on her cheek.
Artillery? Was Chuck buying illegal weapons from someone at this resort? Cody had always claimed Chuck and his buddies were dangerous fanatics, but Celia had never believed him—and everyone else tended to brush off Cody’s dark claims as fanciful imaginings fueled by intense dislike.
What if Cody had been right all along?
But why here? Why at this resort? Who was Chuck talking to?
More heated words were exchanged, again in those low undertones that Celia could almost, but not quite identify. Her mind was spinning. How could all this be going on here, right under Damien’s nose, without him even suspecting anything? How could Novotny have fooled a shrewd businessman like Damien so easily? Unless…
Unless Damien was somehow involved with this.
She swallowed a moan. The men were moving now, mercifully headed in the opposite direction from where Celia crouched, hidden by thick, flowering bushes. She made herself as small as possible, just in case.
She still hadn’t identified the man with Chuck, though she could hear him making shushing noises as they departed, having only limited success at keeping Chuck quiet. Celia—or anyone else from Percy—could have told him that Chuck was a bit too fond of liquor to make a dependable conspirator. Chuck had always had plenty of money, one way or another, but brains were something he’d had in less abundance.
She stayed where she was until she was sure they were gone. The compound was relatively quiet, the noises from the lounge and the other resorts muted. The scarf forgotten now, Celia wondered what to do. It was entirely possible that she’d just been a witness to a federal crime—at least to a conspiracy. Shouldn’t she tell someone?
Her first thought was to find Reed.
He would probably be in his room, she thought. Making calls or not, he had to listen to her. Though this was no more within his realm of experience than hers, surely he would have some suggestions.
She was just about to emerge from the bush when she heard footsteps on the path ahead of her. She blended back into the greenery, her heart leaping into her throat.
She wasn’t certain that she would be in danger if anyone knew she’d overheard Chuck’s ramblings, but she was taking no chances. Illegal weapons dealers—if that was truly what she had stumbled upon—weren’t known for being kind and tolerant.
She let out a quiet breath of relief when she recognized the man who stepped briefly into a pool of light beneath a security lamp.
Reed. Thank God.
And then she noticed how strangely he was acting. Still dressed in the dark clothing he’d had on earlier, his glasses nowhere in sight, he moved quickly out of the light, his head turning as though to make sure no one had seen him. And then he melted into the shadows toward the back of the building, heading for the storage rooms Celia now suspected were being used to store much more than cleaning supplies.
Reed. Oh God, no.
Had it been Reed who’d been talking to Chuck only minutes earlier? Had he managed to ditch Chuck and was now on his way back to make sure the storage rooms were secure? Was this the reason he’d left her—to meet furtively with Chuck about a sale of illegal artillery?
No. She refused to believe it. Not Reed. He was a tax accountant from Cleveland, just as he’d told her. A history buff, for Pete’s sake. He wasn’t a criminal. She simply refused to believe it.
Or was it that she simply couldn’t accept it?
She pressed both hands to her pounding temples, remembering so many things that hadn’t added up, so many things that hadn’t made sense. Yet even with the evidence stacked against him, everything within her rejected that Reed would be involved in anything like this.
She loved him. She had no choice but to trust him.
She took another deep breath and crept out of the bush. She would follow Reed and confront him, she decided boldly. Ask him what the hell was going on, what he was doing out. And if she found out that he was anything other than what he’d told her he was, she’d strangle him. With her bare hands.
Feeling incredibly foolish—not to mention scared to her toes—she scampered from one bush to the next, trying to remain hidden but terribly afraid she might as well be wearing a glow-in-the-dark T-shirt. What did she know about secret surveillance? Stalking wasn’t something she’d ever needed on a resumé!
The storage sheds were actually one low, concrete-block building at the back of the resort lined with padlocked metal doors. The landscaping had been designed to make the building blend with the surroundings, and the lighting was muted so as not to draw guests’ attention to this less than elegant part of the exclusive resort.
Celia didn’t see anyone around, not even Reed. Where had he gone? She’d been certain he’d headed this way.
Just as she was about to risk stepping out into the open, a movement near the end storage room made her jerk back into cover. She watched as Reed slipped out of his own shadows, looked one way and the other, then bent to examine the lock on the solid-looking door.
She slumped against the wall behind her. It was getting harder all the time to believe that Reed had nothing to do with this, though she was still trying.
What was he doing?
She was trying to get up the nerve to confront him when Reed was suddenly approached from both sides by two men she recognized immediately—Jim Bennett, Damien’s very large bodyguard, and the smaller, olive-skinned man Celia had seen walking on the beach with Mark Chenault. The man Reed had called Perrelli.
Before Reed could react to the men’s sudden presence, and before Celia could decide whether to call out a warning, Jim Bennett brought something down hard on the back of Reed’s head. As Celia watched, horrified, Reed crumpled in a bon
eless heap to the ground.
She gasped, then clamped both hands over her mouth to keep herself quiet. She couldn’t help Reed if she, too, was caught.
Or was Reed in need of her help?
What if Bennett and Perrelli considered themselves justified in the attack on Reed? What if they’d simply apprehended someone who was trying to break into a building that belonged to the resort which employed Bennett in a security capacity? It made sense, she acknowledged reluctantly. For all she knew, the man with Bennett was a cop. And Reed a criminal.
But then, while Perrelli kept guard, Bennett swiftly unlocked the storage room, lifted Reed, and tossed him inside, taking no particular care to keep from reinjuring the already unconscious man. A moment later, he closed and locked the door again.
The very furtiveness of their movements removed any doubts Celia might have had about their honor. She didn’t know what Reed had been doing, how he was mixed up with this, but she knew that Bennett and the other man were up to no good. And she knew without question now that Reed was in danger.
And that she could be, as well, if she wasn’t very careful.
It seemed that Celia waited behind that bush in the darkness for hours, though it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before Bennett and Perrelli finally left. They’d spent that time apparently arguing in low voices, hands flying as each had tried to make his point. Celia couldn’t have said who won the argument. They left together, their steps hurried.
Going after the guy in charge, perhaps?
Staring at that locked room, Celia tried not to think that Reed could be seriously injured. Or worse. She couldn’t help him if she panicked. But what should she do? Who could she turn to?
She ran through a mental list of everyone she knew at the resort. It wasn’t very helpful. She had no way of knowing who was involved with Bennett and Novotny, who was innocent. Damien was definitely out. She had to concede, for now, at least, that Damien was probably in on it.
Evan, Maris and Mark were all too loyal to Damien to be of any help to her, even if they weren’t involved. Besides, she couldn’t stand Mark.
Torres? She liked the manager well enough, but again, he was in Damien’s employ.
For some reason, she thought of the waiter she’d befriended, Mike Smith, but the restaurant had been closed for hours, and Smith was probably at home with his wife and kids, wherever that might be. Besides, how could she know he wasn’t involved, too?
She was beginning to feel like everyone at this resort was a part of some nefarious plot!
She had to go for help, she decided. She would head for the nearest telephone away from the resort and call the San Padre Police. It occurred to her that even the police could be in Damien’s pocket, but she brushed that fanciful thought off as being just too paranoid. She was scared—more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, including the aborted attempt at parasailing, but she had to do something. She had to keep her head if she was going to be of any help to Reed.
The thought of Reed, lying alone and injured in that storage room, gave her courage. He had probably stumbled into this mess as blindly as she had, she decided. Maybe he’d been coming back to her room when he’d heard voices, as she had. Maybe he’d thought he was doing his civic duty to investigate. Reed would be the type to think of things like civic duty, she thought anxiously.
Poor Reed. They’d taken him so swiftly, so easily, so utterly unaware. He just wasn’t equipped to deal with men like these.
It occurred to her that she was even less equipped to deal with them, but she bravely pushed that worry aside. It was up to her to help Reed.
There simply wasn’t anyone else to do it. The resort appeared to be more deserted than usual, even for off-season. Every tiptoed step Celia took seemed to echo like sledgehammer blows in the night. She reminded herself that her fear was exaggerating the silence, though of course there was little activity at two in the morning even at a vacation resort.
The shortest and quickest path to the next resort was down the beach. If she went around her building, ran past the fountains and tennis courts and circled the swimming pool, she’d have a straight shot to the beach, and from there to the next hotel. Once she’d found a safe phone, she would decide what to tell the police.
She ducked her head and barreled out of the bushes.
And straight into the arms of Damien’s meaty bodyguard.
Bennett slapped a huge hand over Celia’s mouth before she could scream. “Miss Carson?” he said, looking down at her in disbelief. “What are you doing out here?”
Without releasing her mouth so she could answer, he looked from her to the locked storage room. “Oh, hell. You’re with him, aren’t you?”
Celia tried to ask him to let her go, but the words came out only as a series of muffled grunts. She tried futilely to break away as he dragged her toward the storage room, muttering curses beneath his breath with every step. Bennett didn’t even seem to notice her efforts to resist him.
“One sound outta you and I’ll have to shut you up the hard way, you got that?” he warned as they reached the storage room.
Eyes wide, Celia nodded. It occurred to her that the words should have sounded trite, almost comical—particularly in the Hollywood “tough guy” growl Bennett had suddenly adopted. But she found nothing humorous in the warning.
She believed him.
Bennett tucked her beneath his left arm like a bundle, an inert object, and used his right hand to unlock the storage room again. And then he shoved Celia inside and closed the door firmly behind her.
Celia pitched forward on her hands and knees, landing painfully on what felt like a rough concrete floor. Her breath left her in a whoosh. At first she thought the room was filled with tiny colored lights, but then her vision cleared and she realized the room was completely dark. There wasn’t even a window for illumination.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the dark, she assured herself. She just didn’t like not being able to see.
She groped around her, locating a stack of wooden crates, and another pile of smaller, cardboard boxes. She jammed her fingers painfully on something hard, and she hissed a curse and pulled them back to her lap.
She was almost afraid to reach out again. What if there were spiders in here? Or mice? But that was stupid. She had much worse to worry about, she reminded herself impatiently. Real predators.
And where was Reed?
Hesitantly, she stuck out one hand. Slowly. Cautiously.
Her fingertips touched something soft, damp. Sticky. Hair. And flesh.
“Reed?” Frantically, she scooted closer and ran her hands over him, trying to learn by feel alone if he was breathing. He groaned and stirred beneath her touch.
“Thank God,” she whispered, near tears at this evidence that he was still alive. “Reed?”
He muttered something incoherent. If only she could see him!
“God, I’m such an idiot!” she said aloud, springing to her feet so quickly she nearly fell right on top of Reed’s prone form. Surely there was a light; why hadn’t she already looked for it? After bumping painfully into another wooden crate, she located the door and ran her hands over the cool concrete wall next to it. She almost sobbed when she found the switch.
A moment later, the small, square room was flooded with light from a single bare bulb hanging overhead.
The boxes were stacked along every wall, leaving little space to spare in the center of the room. Celia didn’t even glance at them as she went back down on her knees beside Reed, who lay on his side, his back to the door. There was a dark, shiny patch at the back of his head, a small puddle of red on the gray floor beneath him. His face was pale and his breathing was shallow. But he was breathing, she reminded herself firmly.
She touched his face. “Reed. Please, answer me. Let me know you’re all right.”
His eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.
“Reed!” She spoke more
sharply that time, needing him to look at her. To convince her that he wasn’t going to die. “Reed, please. I’ll get us out of here somehow, I promise, but first you have to let me know you’re all right. Please. Say something.”
Again, his eyelids fluttered. This time, to her great relief, they opened. He lay very still, frowning up at her. And then his clouded eyes cleared. “Celia?”
Her held breath came out in a sob. “Yes. Oh, Reed.”
He lifted his head, cautiously, looking around him. “What the hell—?”
“Don’t move,” she told him, quickly pressing a hand to his shoulder. “Bennett hit you on the back of the head. Hard. You should lie still.”
Ignoring her restraining hand, Reed pushed himself to one elbow. “Bennett?” he repeated, though he’d just gone about two shades paler.
“Damien’s bodyguard.” Celia anxiously searched his haggard face. “Reed, you really should—”
She might as well have saved her breath. Reed shoved himself to his feet, hissing a couple of rather shocking epithets beneath his breath as he did so.
Celia hurried to support him as he swayed on his feet. She was afraid he was about to crash back down to the floor, and she worried that she wouldn’t be able to catch him if he did.
He brushed her off impatiently. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Damn it, Celia, if you’re in on this, I’ll—”
“Of course I’m not in on this!” she interrupted indignantly. “I was trying to rescue you when Bennett caught me and threw me in here with you. How could you even think I had anything to do with this?”
She was genuinely offended, conveniently forgetting for the moment that she had suspected Reed of everything from fooling around with the mystery redhead to illegal gunrunning.
Reed studied her face for a moment, then relaxed and nodded. The movement made him wince and put a hand to the back of his head. It came away smeared with red.
He looked at his gory palm for a moment without expression, then turned back to Celia. “You were following me?”