He didn’t need to answer; his expression and body language spoke louder than words. Nonetheless, he managed to articulate, “I can assure you, I did not send you anything while you were in prison.” Continuing to regulate his external calm, he added, “And, speaking of prison, congratulations on your early release.”
Sarcasm dripped from his final statement; however, Claire was still mulling over his first declaration. If he didn’t send me that information, then who did? When his words registered, she decided to dial down the conversation. Yes, her old instincts were guiding her through this minefield. Those instincts saved her life in the past. He’d changed the subject, and experience warned her to take heed. Any discussion of his box or his alternate persona would need to wait. “Thank you, I promise that I was as surprised as you must have been.”
He harrumphed as he took another drink of his wine. The contents disappeared. He poured himself another glass. “That, my dear, is debatable.”
Claire smiled; he may have manipulated her plans. Nonetheless, she’d just acquired invaluable information. He didn’t send the box; he hadn’t known she knew about his past or his vendetta, and she could obviously influence his demeanor. That knowledge seemed more powerful today than it’d ever been. She looked at the menu and discussed the entrees she found appetizing.
Truthfully, neither of them possessed much of an appetite; nevertheless, the dinner progressed. As expected, Tony ordered their meals; however, as he spoke to the waiter, in French, Claire smiled when he ordered the selection she’d suggested.
After the waiter left, Tony turned to Claire and continuing in French and said, “I see that you’ve broadened your language portfolio.”
Also in French, she replied, “Yes, I decided to capitalize on my gift of time.”
He grinned and shook his head ever so slightly. Now in English, “Claire, how is your headache?”
“I believe the wine is helping.”
“That’s good. Tell me about San Antonio.”
Momentarily, she savored the robust thick liquid that contained a hint of sweet floral flavor, contemplating her response. If his obvious knowledge of her whereabouts was supposed to threaten or alarm her, she disappointed him again. Meeting his gaze she smiled. “It was lovely. I’ve always enjoyed sunshine and warmth.”
“Yes, I can see your lovely tan.”
Maybe, he could make her smile. Yes, there was a twinge of concern about upsetting him, but even empty, they were in a public place. She knew he wouldn’t do or say anything harmful while in the sight of others. Truthfully, she felt a new sense of empowerment. If it had been present before, she’d been too close to see it, but now, Claire sensed her ability to affect him. She could upset him, and she could calm him. Few people held that power. Perhaps others did, but they weren’t brave, or stupid enough to try.
Claire chose to use the word brave.
When Claire entered her condo later that evening, she heard unexpected noises resonating from the den. Making her way down the hall, she found Harry lounging on the small loveseat, watching a baseball game. The way his long legs hung off the end of the sofa added to the comedy of the scene, especially considering the large, comfortable couch and five times larger television in his condo. “Is your television broken?”
He turned to speak, but her appearance momentarily muted him. Eventually, he managed to answer, “No, it’s fine. I just thought you might need some moral support.”
“Tell me you aren’t here to be sure I came home alone.”
Harry stood and approached one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. “Not like you may think. I really wanted to be sure you were all right. I know I haven’t asked directly, and I don’t need to know anything you don’t want to say, but I get the feeling there were times in your past that your ex-husband didn’t treat you well.” He looked into her eyes, and said, “Claire, stop the pretense.”
She backed away from his sudden harsh tone. “Excuse me? I haven’t said a word.”
“No, you haven’t, but you’re doing what you always do. You’re eyes are changing. You’re hiding behind some mask of indifference.”
The night was overwhelming. Her head did hurt. She’d just left dinner with Tony and was suddenly in another confrontation. Claire honestly wasn’t up for more conflict. Plus, his word: mask. That’s what she used to tell herself to wear with Tony. Did she really wear one with Harry too?
“My head is aching. I’m sorry if you find my expression unappealing. I appreciate your concern. I’m home safe and sound, and I did learn some valuable information. Perhaps I can share it with you tomorrow.”
He stepped closer and placed his hands on her waist. She didn’t back away, yet she filled with guilt as her thoughts centered on the man at the restaurant, not the one before her.
When Harry touched her waist, his fingertips landed on her warm skin. Smiling, he leaned around her shoulder and took in the stunning view. “You look lovely. I’m sure this will be on every magazine in a day or two.”
“No, it won’t.”
Obviously surprised by the finality of her statement, Harry asked, “How can you say that? We go to Starbucks and make the internet. You looking this gorgeous will warrant the cover of every national gossip magazine!” He continued to hold her gently around the waist. Claire shook her head back and forth; then half-jokingly, he whispered, “Apparently, I’ve not warranted such an amazing dress.”
Her neck stiffened. “It isn’t new. I wore it in Texas, and I can assure you that you won’t see my picture in this outfit or any other with Anthony Rawlings. At least, not until he is ready to have it out there.”
“What happened to your plan for visibility?”
“I was trumped. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“I promise to tell you all about it tomorrow. Right now, I want out of this dress and these shoes.” Harry moved ever so slightly toward her warmth until her next words changed his plans. “If you’d please lock the door on your way out, I’m going to bed.” She pulled away from his embrace and turned toward her room.
Before she passed the door frame, she heard Harry’s voice. “I’d really like the chance to understand you better—the real you.”
Softly, she said, “Good night, Harry.” Then she proceeded to her room. Truthfully, his comment regarding a mask caught her by surprise. She didn’t mean to hide her feelings—well not usually. Nevertheless, tonight she couldn’t possibly look into his soft blue eyes or feel his gentle touch without thinking about the man that challenged her sanity. It wasn’t fair to Harry—being with him and thinking about Tony.
It wasn’t fair to Claire to have to make decisions about her true feelings. She needed time; time to sort out the mayhem that continued to be her life. Luckily, the medicine cabinet in her attached bath contained a big bottle of acetaminophen. Finally, she settled into her welcomingly cool and pleasantly lonely, comfortable bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together.
—Eugene Ionesco
Claire’s body dripped with perspiration; her breasts pushed toward his solid, muscular chest. She craved the sensation of his tight muscles and soft chest hair against her sensitive nipples. Inhaling deeply, the fragrance of cologne reached the depth of her lungs, filling her senses and intensifying her irrepressible desire. The tips of her fingers gripped the soft Egyptian threaded sheets; her manicured fingernails threatening to gouge the luxurious linens, potentially returning them to fibers, in the heat of passion. Arching her back, Claire’s lips sought to taste the stubble neck, which with each exaggerated pulse of his carotid artery, provided the amazing scent. It was so close, yet as much as she tried, and as much as she pushed toward the warmth, she couldn’t reach her target. Claire’s body ached to feel him, to have him, to take him—or more accurately—to be taken by him. It had been so long, and she could no longer suppress her desires. No one else’s
opinion mattered. Willingly and without regret, she submitted to the mounting passion. The train she rode couldn’t be stopped, even if she wanted, but she didn’t want it to stop. Every fiber of her body was in agreement. She wanted what only he could give. She wanted…
Her eyes opened to darkness. It wasn’t the darkness in her dream, not the dark eyes, which unpardonably consumed her heart and soul. It was the darkness of night, of her room, of her lonely, empty bed.
Claire looked at the clock on the nearby table. Damn, it was only a little after 2:00 AM. Being the third time she’d awoken since leaving Harry down the hall. She decided it was the night that never ends. Lamb Chops sang in her head, a G-rated childhood memory running in loops, kindly drowning out the echoes of XXX rated passion.
Freeing her bound legs from the tangled mess of sheets and blankets, Claire relished in the cool, fresh breeze from her open window, detecting the slightest scent of the impeding summer. She inhaled the promise of warmth, chlorine, and freshly cut grass.
The night had been a never ending ride upon a carrousel, up and down, around and around, the same scenes replayed over and over. One minute, while feeling cold, she’d ensconce her body with a soft cocoon, drifting off to sleep. What seemed like moments later—she’d awake, violently thrashing to free herself from the sweltering coverings. Thankfully, Amber was out of town as Claire believed that, a few times, she’d actually cried out audibly. She wasn’t sure if her screams were from the ecstasy of her dreams or the pain of her reality.
These weren’t mysterious nightmares, which left her wondering their meaning. No, these were vivid, lifelike dreams that caused her to gasp with disappointment each time her eyes opened to the cold reality. Although the visions were no more real than her memories of an Iowa summer or her lake shore, she still laid in her bed, panting for breath and clutching the helpless, innocent pillow.
Claire knew her unconscious, carnal yearning had once again forsaken her. It wasn’t the first time. Last time, she gave in to its perfidious pleas. Last time, the object of her desire was close—too close to fight. She hadn’t had the strength to fight him and her rebellious longings.
Allowing her eyes to adjust to her surroundings, she concentrated on the stucco ceiling illuminated only by the light of the clock. The stupid, red numbers refused to change, giving her more time to do nothing but think. Claire focused on her breathing, willing her pulse to slow and her skin to cool. She argued with her traitorous body. Surely with enough reasoning, she could make it cooperate.
Claire reminded herself that her memory banks held a litany of scenes involving Anthony Rawlings. She had plenty to supersede the erotic episodes she was currently viewing—no, reliving. She knew the other memories existed. It’s just she’d worked to compartmentalize them away. So when her eyes closed and she remembered sharing a table with him, only hours before, the lock on the negative part of their past remained secure.
Then again, during that dinner she had plans, and once again, he thwarted her plans, utilizing his unlimited resources and cunning psyche to conquer her desired consequence. Appearing suave and debonair, he’d managed to reduce her well-laid idea to rubble, while maintaining the perfect smile.
That wasn’t completely true. His veneer definitely cracked when she referred to him as Anton. That bombshell unquestionably permeated his facade. Claire still couldn’t wrap her mind around this new revelation. Of course, she’d assumed the box was from him. She was certain of the writing, although the note wasn’t signed. Claire wished she still had the note. Thankfully, she’d kept the pictures, as she was certain the writing behind each photograph had belonged to him.
Again, thankful Amber wasn’t home, Claire chose to forgo another all-consuming dream and got out of bed. She wanted to review and work on their research.
With a warm cup of coffee in tow, Claire made her way to one of the spare bedrooms. Turning on the light, she marveled at the magnitude of papers. She was slowly taking over more and more of Amber’s space. Although she mentioned finding a place of her own, she admittedly liked the company, and thus far, Amber had been more than accommodating. It was Claire who suggested moving the mountains of findings into the small bedroom. She felt bad, burying the dining room table with her stacks of research.
The queen-sized bed created the perfect palate for Claire’s unique filing system. There were piles from one end to the other. In a paperless world, she’d managed to personally decimate a tree or two. The information was also saved on her laptop. Nonetheless, holding the pages in her hands gave Claire a sense of reality. She knew from experience the internet could contain false truths; however, when she held a story, a blurb from an article, dates from public record, and pictures, in her hand—it gave them validity. The small desk contained her laptop while a dresser held the printer.
Claire moved toward the bed and stacks of information. She wondered, could there be something in their accumulated data she’d missed? She wasn’t the only one gathering information. Harry pulled strings to get police information containing invaluable reports that were unavailable to the general public. Amber willingly spent hours surfing the net, back-dooring company websites. She understood the business side of their research much more than Claire.
That being said, the depth of Claire’s business knowledge surprised them all. Apparently, the days she’d spent in Tony’s office weren’t wasted. She remembered having to sit hour after hour in Tony’s office, required to be ready at a moment’s notice in case her services were demanded. At the time, she saw it as his display of power and control. Today, she grinned at the new perspective: those wasted days were actually educational.
How many people receive the opportunity to watch and listen to one of the country’s most successful entrepreneurs at work? Although she usually spent those days reading, she subconsciously listened. Perhaps he felt she didn’t care, or that she couldn’t understand. Claire opted for the answer: he didn’t even consider eavesdropping. He was busy, displaying his power over her schedule, the rest of the world be damned.
She shuddered at the estimation of hours spent in that office during the nearly two years on his estate. After they were married, most of the time was voluntary. Nevertheless, she’d listened to web conferences, webinars, and unnumbered telephone conversations. Hell, she listened to those in cars and even on his private jet. Her presence never inhibited his words. Actually, she got good at recognizing the subtle changes in body language as his words remained amicable.
When in his office and perturbed, he had a habit of rolling an old key ring in his hand. It was some old trinket that he kept in the upper right-hand drawer of his large desk. If Claire looked up from her book or magazine and saw the stupid ring running laps on his right hand, she knew he was upset, yet the person on the other end of the discussion would never know. His features and voice never wavered. They couldn’t see the tarnished silver charm or strangely shaped key being passed from one finger to the next. Claire came to know the speed at which the ring ran a lap in his large hand, was proportional to his state of agitation.
Contemplating those memories, Claire’s stomach twisted. His unease was directly proportional to the downturn of her day. Not only did he control her comings and goings, he was the barometer for the tone of her life. If he were happy, the day could be manageable, maybe even good. If he weren’t… well, she really hated that stupid key ring.
Her business knowledge was unrealized until she read an article about a company under investigation by the SEC, Securities Exchange Commission. Claire remembered hours of discussion about that same company. Some of the issues that, according to the article, were just brought to light had actually been debated ad nauseam years before.
Amber found her information very intriguing. After Amber pulled up more details on the company, Claire was shocked to realize she actually knew, or at least recognized, the names and faces of many prominent players. They were people Claire had been responsible for entertaining at business dinners. She’d
met them, talked with them, and dined with them. Her knowledge base was much broader than she’d previously expected.
Settling into a comfortable chair, feet on an ottoman, and wrapped in her warm robe, Claire began rereading documents. Anthony was obviously surprised by the use of his name—Anton Rawls. He flat out denied it. Well, he called it a ridiculous story. She didn’t directly ask if he was once Anton Rawls. She only asked him if he sent her the box. That, he categorically denied.
Claire decided to start at the beginning:
Nathaniel Rawls, born 1919. Served in U.S. Army, WWII deployment, returned to USA 1943. Married Sharron Parkinson Rawls in 1943. Began working for BNG Textiles in 1943—1944. Samuel Anton Rawls born 1953. BNG Textiles became Rawls Textiles. The company expanded—1975. Rawls went public, traded on the NYSE. At this point records are easier to obtain. The biggest problem was lack of technology in 1975.
Today, a wealth of information was available on every traded company: assets, liabilities, ownership equity, profit and loss sheets, management analysis, and much more. The same information was presumably available in 1975, but not at a click of a button. Claire debated traveling to New Jersey to access microfiche files. The woman on the telephone told her they should have it. However, the state of New Jersey doesn’t have the inclination, time, or manpower to track the old information. She invited Claire to come and investigate the bowels of their storage. Although a lovely invitation, Claire hadn’t decided if it were necessary.
January 1986, rumors involving Rawls Corp resulted in a drastic drop in stock price. Investors wanted their money returned. 1987, Nathaniel Rawls was convicted and incarcerated at Camp Gabriels, a minimum security state prison, located in northern New York. He was sentenced to thirty-six months, one of the heaviest penalties dispersed for a white collar crime. 1989, twenty-two months after conviction, Nathaniel Rawls died of a heart attack.
The Consequences Series Box Set Page 72
