Reese: The Untamed. Susan Connell
fact that this overblown project of yours is a complete waste of money.”
“Money’s not a problem. Besides, I thought I’d told you that the funding came from a private source. No one’s going to miss it at headquarters.”
“Please!” Letting go of the material, she curved her hand over her sun hat and hunched her shoulders closer to the phone. “I told you, I don’t want to know where the money came from. I wish you’d never bring that up again.”
While Eugene attempted to reassure her that her trip would never be connected to Tyler Pierson’s reelection campaign, she looked out to sea again. One sleek, white boat had broken away from the flotilla and was cruising outside the villa’s private cove. She smiled longingly at the lazy figure-eight pattern the boat was making. That’s where she’d like to be. Out on the water with the wind blowing in her hair and a bronzed hunk blowing in her ear. Away from this tawdry mess, with no place to go and all day to get there. She frowned and looked away. That delicious scenario wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. She’d given her word to see this project through. If there was a chance that her participation could make the difference in getting the president reelected, she had no choice but to continue. With a sigh of resignation she interrupted the president’s campaign manager.
“Are you holding back any information from me?”
“No. Why are you asking that?”
“Because your file on Reese Marchand says he spent four years in the United States, but I heard him speak last night. He doesn’t have a trace of a French accent. He sounds like an anchorman on the six o’clock news back home. Are there any more surprises you’ve forgotten to tell me about?” Glancing out at the boat and the man steering it, she absently smoothed her thumb along the hip string of her bikini. “He doesn’t have a wife stashed around here, does he?”
“What do you care? We’re not asking you to marry him.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if you did,” she said, brushing aside her cover-up to plant a hand on her hip.
Eugene laughed. “In this case the end would justify the means, Beth, because when you consider the alternative…” His voice drifted off for a second. “Can you imagine where we’d all be if Harrison Montgomery made it to the White House? We’re waging war here. Be a good soldier and tell me what you have planned for today.”
The speedboat made a sudden hard turn and was heading straight for her shore. Who in the world…?
“Just a second, Eugene.”
She walked ankle-deep into the water. Squinting hard, she yanked off her sunglasses as she silently mouthed, “Omigod, it’s him.” There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she was right. She’d been trailing Reese Marchand for several days and could pick him out at fifty yards. “He’s…I mean, someone’s coming. I have to go.”
“I’m not done with you. Have the maid send whoever it is away.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, hurrying back to her chair. “I gave her the day off.”
“She’s supposed to be there twenty-four hours a day.”
Beth raised her voice. “The woman has a life, Eugene.” Over his protests, she continued. “I’m hanging up now.” Clicking off the phone, she dropped it into the canvas bag attached to her beach chair.
Her face and hands began tingling with alarm when Reese Marchand cut his motor and dropped anchor. When he dived over the side, she stepped behind the canvas sling chair. What was he doing here? Glancing behind her, she calculated the time it would take to make a run for the hill stairs. She dragged a nervous hand across her bare midriff. She’d never make it, and worse, she would end up looking like a frightened child running away from the school yard. Again. Lord, why had that old nightmare chosen to reassert itself at this moment? She pushed the memory out of her mind as Reese Marchand broke the surface and continued swimming toward her. With his every stroke her pulse tripled. And surprisingly, her daring did, too. Moving out from behind the chair, she walked a few steps away from it and waited.
When he stood up in thigh-deep water and casually shoved his fingers through his hair, she swallowed in awe. Water dripped down his broad-shouldered and beautifully muscled body, rearranging his dark mat of chest hair into a series of arrows. A part of her wanted to linger over his well-toned chest and abdomen, but those arrows kept pointing lower to his aubergine swim trunks. The wet material hung low on his hips, exposing his navel…but not his tan line. She briefly wondered if he had a tan line.
“Good morning. Mind if I join you?”
His baritone voice vibrated through her like a second heartbeat. The bizarre sensation made her forget to breathe for a second. He took a few steps toward her, then stopped and looked her over with sincere curiosity.
“You look startled. Have I come at a bad time?”
She shook her head until she located her tongue. “No,” she finally managed when he walked out of the water. As his gaze wandered over her, she slipped off her broad-brimmed hat and held it first in front of her and then behind her. Why, why, why hadn’t she burned this thong bikini and replaced it with a less revealing swimsuit?
“Reese Marchand,” he said, reaching out a wet, well-tanned hand. “We shared an awkward moment together last night at the casino. Do you remember?”
“Vividly,” she said, as he closed his hand gently but firmly over hers. His physicality was as powerful this morning as it had been last night, but she promised herself she wouldn’t lose her ability to speak this time. From this moment forward she was going to be clever and witty and sophisticated. Really, she was. Just as soon as she thought of something to say. She looked down at his hand, still holding hers. His cool grip was strangely reassuring in the Mediterranean sunshine. As she looked up at him again, her gaze skimmed over the confident curve of his lips and the hint of dimples creasing his cheeks to lock into his relentless gaze. Far from intimidating her, the warmth in his smoky topaz eyes offered her humor, patience and an unnamed challenge. She started to return the smile, but calmly eased her hand from his when something else struck her about Reese Marchand’s eyes. Whether it was their shape, their color or their intensity, they bore an uncanny resemblance to Harrison Montgomery’s. She fought for a deep, calming breath as a prickling sensation zipped through her stomach.
“My name is Beth Langdon. How did you know where I was staying?” she asked, trying not to look at the stray water droplets still dribbling down his body. His muscular, masculine and perfectly sculpted body.
“Monte Carlo is a small town. Word gets around,” he said, glancing toward the flower-edged steps leading up to the villa. “Have you known Billy for long?”
“Billy?”
“Billy Waleska, the owner.”
“Oh, Billy.” She smiled. “Yes, for quite a while.”
“Then you’re lovers?”
“Lovers?” She wouldn’t know Billy Waleska if he’d popped up on her doorstep with a rose between his teeth and a bottle of champagne in his hands. But that was beside the point. Now wasn’t the time to melt into an embarrassed mound of middle-class mush. This was Europe. More than Europe. This was southern France. “Mr. Marchand—”
“Reese,” he said, his quiet response blending with the soft shushing of the sea.
“Reese.” Tilting her head, she nodded in a way that she prayed made her appear unruffled. Fat chance of that. Smiling, she slid on her glasses. “If it pleases you to think we’re lovers, go right ahead.”
“I’d rather not,” he said, in a way that made her smile disappear and her gaze narrow.
Moving away from him, she headed for the security of her beach chair. Dear Lord, where had she come up with such glib drivel? Damn you, Eugene. What else did you conveniently forget to tell me? Dropping her hat in the sand, she sank down in the striped canvas seat