She waited the barest instant until the man walking toward them couldn’t help but see the intimate pose, then she slowly stepped away a pace, letting her hands slide off him as if reluctant to let him go despite the interruption.
“Hello, Mr. Tiello,” she said. “It’s me. This is, uh, an old friend. Reese Barone. Reese, Ernesto Tiello.”
Reese stepped forward and extended his hand automatically, trying to ignore his racing pulse. What was she up to? She’d deliberately made it sound as if he were a very good old friend. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you, sir.” Tiello was a bulky fellow, probably ten years older than Reese himself, with a heavy accent that might indicate nonnative roots. The man looked from one to the other of them. “Were you out on the water?”
“Yes.” Celia turned to face Tiello. Her free hand reached for and found Reese’s and she intertwined their fingers. “A little night fishing. We used to do it all the time when we were young.”
A gleam of amusement lit the dark eyes and Tiello smiled. “I see.”
Reese felt his own lips twitch as he fought not to chuckle. Celia was going to be sorry she started this.
Another boat light along the dock snapped on. “I thought I heard your voice, Ernesto.” The voice was feminine, smoky and suggestive. It instantly made a man wonder if the woman attached to it lived up to its promise.
Tiello’s tanned features creased into what Reese assumed was a seductive smile. “It is, indeed, and I’m flattered that you thought of me, Claudette.”
A form leaped from the deck of the yacht from which the light shone. Backlit by the brightness, the woman appeared tall and slender. Then she drew closer. She had blond hair caught in a thick braid that trailed over one shoulder so far that Reese knew if it was unbound her hair would reach her hips. Big blue eyes, a heart-shaped face and a slight cleft in her chin added even more interest to her pretty face, but the mouth changed it all. “Pretty” became “sexy as hell” at the first glimpse of those lips.
“Hello,” she purred, extending her hand and favoring him with a brilliant smile that revealed small, perfect white teeth. “I’m Claudette Mason.”
“Reese Barone.” He repeated the ritual he’d just completed with Tiello, who was wearing a distinctly sulky look on his face.
“Did you just arrive?” Her gaze drifted over him. “I’m sure I would have noticed if you’d been here earlier.”
“I docked a few hours ago.” Celia’s fingers had gone stiff and uncooperative in his; he glanced down at her but she was wearing an absolutely expressionless mask that would have served her well in a poker game.
“I hope you’ll be here for a while. We could get to know each other.” Claudette had yet to acknowledge Celia’s presence, let alone the fact that he was holding her hand.
“Er, thanks,” he said, “but I’ll be occupied while I’m here.” He dragged Celia’s hand up with his to display their entwined fingers. “Celia and I haven’t seen each other in a while and we have a lot to catch up on.”
“Ah. I see.” Claudette Mason made a moue of regret. Without even a pause, she turned back to Tiello. “Could I interest you in a drink, Ernesto? Mr. Brevery has gone to Boston for the night.”
The man’s face brightened as if she’d brought him a gift. “I would be delighted,” he said. He turned to Celia and Reese. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Barone. Have a lovely evening, Mrs. Papaleo.”
“Thank you. You do the same.” Celia tugged discreetly at the hand he’d lowered, but he kept her fingers imprisoned in his. “Are you ready to go, Reese?”
As the other pair walked back down the dock toward the woman’s yacht—the Golden Glow, he noted—he lifted a brow and looked down at Celia. “Sure.” In a lower voice, he added, “But it might be nice if I knew where I was supposed to be going.”
“You’ll have to walk home with me.” Celia sounded grumpy and grudging as they moved out of range of the other couple, and he felt his own surly mood creeping back over him. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”
Reese nodded. “I guess.” Sarcasm colored his tone as he allowed her to tow him along the dock toward the street.
“Thank you,” she said curtly. “I appreciate you going along with my…my…”
“Deception?” he offered pleasantly. “Fabrication? How about lie?”
They were walking along the edge of the harbor now and as she turned onto a street away from the marina, Celia yanked her hand free. “There’s a good reason.” Her voice sounded defensive.
“I imagine so,” he said, allowing the cutting edge in his voice to slice, “since I can’t think of any reason you’d want to hold my hand after dumping me thirteen years ago.”
“I dumped you?” Celia stopped in her tracks. “Excuse me, but I seem to recall you being the one who dropped off the face of the earth.” Then she started walking again, fast, and despite his superior size, he had to take large strides to catch up with her. “Why are we arguing? As you pointed out, it’s ancient history. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
He could feel the anger slipping free of his control and he clamped down on it, gritting his teeth to prevent another retort. It made him remember gritting his teeth in a very similar manner—but for a very different reason—just a short while ago, and he pulled up a vivid mental image of himself smacking the heel of his hand against his forehead. How stupid would I have to be, he lectured himself, to care about what happened when we were still practically kids? He wasn’t any more interested than she was in resurrecting their old relationship.
“No,” he said softly, definitely. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
They walked in awkward silence for a few hundred yards.
“Who’s Mr. Brevery?” It was an abrupt change of topic but he wanted to show her how little he cared about the past.
Celia cleared her throat. “Claudette’s employer. He’s put up here every October for at least a half dozen years.”
“And Tiello?”
Her mouth twisted. “Playboy. Too much money and too much time to waste. This is the third year he’s visited us in the fall.”
The same probably applied to him in her estimation. So what? He’d stopped caring what Celia thought of him long ago. “So why were you out on the water with no lights?”
She looked around and he realized she was checking to be sure no one was near. “I’d rather tell you when we’re inside.”
Inside. She was going to invite him into her house. Although he knew she was only doing it because she’d entangled him in whatever little scheme she was up to, he still felt a quickening interest, as if he were still a teenage boy who saw a chance to score.
She broke your heart, remember? You’re not interested.
Right. That’s why you came back after you stopped by Saquatucket in late August and found out she was still around.
“Here,” she said. She pushed open a gate in a low picket fence and led the way up a crushed-shell path to the door of a boxy Cape Cod farmhouse-style home. The place clearly was an old Cape treasure. She paused on the stoop to unlock the door, then pushed it open and beckoned to him without meeting his eyes. “Please come in.”
Formal. She was nervous. About having him around? About what he’d interrupted? He told himself it didn’t matter. “Nice place,” he said. When she was young, she’d lived in one of the most modest cottages on the Cape. This house probably was on the historic register.
The living room was furnished with heavy pieces in shades of creams