—Jessica Lange
Tony made no attempt to subdue his glare. This ridiculous mockery had gone on for far too long. The walls of the small interrogation room were beginning to close in around him. He didn’t try to keep his volume in check as he addressed the FBI agent across the table, “Agent Jackson, I’ve been listening to you for hours and I’ve—”
Brent interrupted, “What my client is trying to say is—if you don’t plan on charging him with a crime, we’re leaving.”
Agent Jackson pulled out a binder of papers. It was surprising he could locate anything within the clutter of jumbled stacks upon the table. While Brent had more recently arrived, Tony had been sitting there for hours, listening as the FBI agents tag-teamed his interrogation. One would ask questions and then disappear. Moments later, another agent would enter the room and resume the inquisition. The barrage was taking its toll; between the throbbing in his head and the ache in his back, Tony was ready to leave the small room. He didn’t care how—he just wanted out.
Agent Jackson leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what; I’m tired—you’re tired, and I don’t anticipate this ending anytime soon. The Bureau has kindly arranged for you, Mr. Rawlings, to spend the night. Mr. Simmons, by signing the gag order and release forms, you too will be provided accommodations until this situation is resolved.”
Brent stood. “This is Anthony Rawlings, CEO of Rawlings Industries. You cannot hold him without probable cause.”
Agent Jackson stood to meet Brent’s gaze. “Despite your client’s recent loss of memory, I guarantee we have probable cause; however, if you gentleman aren’t ready to call it a night”—he handed Brent the binder—“Then I suggest you and your client review this testimony. We can continue this discussion in a few hours.”
Tony’s blood boiled. He’d spent hours being questioned about Claire, their relationship, and her disappearance. Not once had anyone from the FBI volunteered information regarding her safety or whereabouts. Getting angry hadn’t produced any results; he decided to try cooperation. Slapping his hand on the table, he exhaled. “If this will help you find Claire, I’ll stay, but once again, I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with her disappearance. I want her found—safe and sound. If you have information regarding her whereabouts, I deserve to know.”
Agent Jackson looked at his watch. “Mr. Rawlings, what you
deserve
, has yet to be determined. Gentlemen, I’ll have food delivered. I suggest you utilize this time as a meeting of the minds. This case has taken unexpected twists and turns, and I want answers when I return.”
Tony looked down at his hands. This man and the whole damn FBI were holding him essentially against his will. He hadn’t had this kind of restriction placed on his comings and goings since childhood—it was absurd. As Agent Jackson left the room, Tony didn’t bother to stand; being polite to the man holding him hostage wasn’t high on Tony’s priority list.
His mind spun trying to decipher meaning from the agent’s questions. Agent Jackson asked Tony when he last saw Claire. He asked if he’d spoken to her while he was in Europe. Why he cut his European trip short? Why he hired a bodyguard for Claire? What happened in California that led to Claire’s hospitalization? After showing pictures of Claire with Harrison Baldwin, the agent asked if Tony was sure he was the father of Claire’s unborn child.
Yes, that innuendo could have landed Tony in custody for assault, if Brent hadn’t been quick enough to separate the two.
Looking around at the drably painted walls, he rolled his head upon his shoulders and looked toward his friend and attorney. It was their first opportunity to speak
alone
since Brent’s arrival. Tony cleared his throat. “Thanks for getting out here to Boston so fast.”
Brent’s stance softened. “You know it’s true; they can hold you up to forty-eight hours without charges.”
“Why won’t they give us any information on Claire?”
“I’d assume they want to learn what you know first.” As Brent spoke, he opened the binder. Tony watched Brent’s face blanch as he scanned the pages. For minutes, Tony sat and studied his friend’s expression. With each passing second Brent’s expression became harder and grimmer.
As the tension grew, Tony asked, “What is that?”
Brent didn’t answer; instead, he walked to a chair in the corner of the room, turned on another light, and continued reading.
“I’m getting fuck’n sick of no one answering my questions,” Tony muttered as he paced about the room. The day had been too long.
Tony thought pensively about Sophia and wondered if she’d shown up for dinner at the Inn at Crown Pointe, only to be stood up. Glancing at Brent engrossed in his reading, Tony collapsed once again in the metal chair, placed his elbows on the table and supported his head. In desperate need of a reprieve, Tony closed his eyes and tried to push his concerns for Claire away.
What did unexpected twists and turns mean? Could Claire be—dead? No!
Tony refused to believe that.
Behind his closed lids, he didn’t see the darkness of escape; instead, emerald green filled his imagination.
When was the last time he saw her?
They asked him that over and over. He’d seen her image on his video surveillance getting in the car, but in person—he remembered it vividly:
It was early—very early—the morning he left for Europe—much earlier than Claire liked to wake. As the first rays of sunlight emerged from behind the heavy drapes, Tony was ready to leave. Claire wasn’t stirring, yet he didn’t want to leave without talking to her. Actually, she’d asked him to wake her; however, as he stood watching, she looked so peaceful and content. He hated disturbing her slumber.
Her rhythmic breathing moved pieces of her hair as they hung over her beautiful face. Before he could stop himself, Tony brushed the strands away from her cheek. Beneath the disheveled brown hair he found pink, slightly parted lips. Without hesitation he bent down and touched his lips to hers. The warmth of his kiss stirred her, causing her face to incline toward his. Though her eyes were still closed, her lips engaged as she reached for his neck.
Her sleepy voice questioned, “You woke me up before you left?”
“You told me to.”
Her eyes opened, revealing a bewildered expression.
“Why are you looking at me that way? You said you wanted me to wake you.”
“I know.” She sat up, their gaze unbroken. “I’m just not used to you listening to me, or doing what I say.”
He pressed closer, feeling the sensation of her breasts against his chest. “Well, we could go back to—”
Claire shook her head as she, once again, surrounded his neck with her arms. “No, I like this better.”
His devilish grin couldn’t be contained. “Well, last night you didn’t seem to mind a few directions or should I say suggestions?”
Her cheeks reddened as she hid her face in his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I like that too.”
Taking her chin in his gentle grasp, Tony searched her eyes. He could get lost in the depths of the green—emerald green—so deep and rich. “I was hoping I could change your mind about joining me on this trip.”
Their noses nearly touched as her lids fluttered and her expression softened. “When do you need to leave?”
It wasn’t the response he wanted; he wanted her to say she’d come to Europe with him. “The plane’s ready. Eric’s waiting in the car.”
Claire’s expression beckoned, her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, and her words came between butterfly kisses to his neck, “I don’t think”—“Eric would mind”—“waiting a little longer”—“Besides”—“you’re going to be gone”—“for almost two weeks”
As Claire’s fingers moved toward his belt and her lips touched his newly exposed chest, Tony’s travel plans seemed suddenly insignificant. Then, before Tony could take this moment any farther, Claire kissed him, smiled, and said, “Give me a minute.”
“Seriously, you’re going to do this to me and walk away?”
Claire didn’t look back as she walked toward the bathroom, giggled, and mumbled something about ‘it’ being
his fault
. She was right. The pregnancy was his fault; nonetheless, watching her in nothing but her long silk nightgown, he couldn’t help grinning. Her normal clothes didn’t accentuate their growing baby, but in that nightgown, he could see her growing midsection plain as day. When she returned, he was back in bed. His travel clothes neatly piled on a nearby chair.
As Claire started to climb in bed, their eyes met and Tony shook his head.
“What?” she asked, as her smile melted his soul.
He tried for his most formidable voice. “Ms. Nichols, you started this. I believe you are excessively overdressed.”
Her demeanor looked anything but intimidated. She barely hesitated as she ignored his comment, climbed onto the bed, and pushed Tony back onto his pillow. Hovering above him, he inhaled the scent of toothpaste as Claire’s freshly brushed hair swept across his face. With a sexy smile she challenged his demand, “Then, Mr. Rawlings, I suggest you do something about that.” Within seconds, their worlds reversed. Claire was pinned to her pillow, her nightgown gone and her hands secured above her head. Her giggle quickly became a moan as her eyes closed indicating her approval of his actions.
It wasn’t just the moan that indicated her approval—no, her entire body approved, as did his. For the next forty minutes they were lost within one another. Tony couldn’t help caressing and kissing her midsection as he moved up and down her sensual body. Her soft skin and amazing scent dominated his thoughts. Any concerns of his impending departure disappeared.
When he finally redressed and started to leave, her aura pulled him back for one last kiss. “I love you and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I wish you were coming.”
Her eyelids fought an unseen weight. “Travel safely. I love you, too.”
As he pulled the covers over her soft exposed skin, he asked, “Are you going back to sleep?”
She nodded. “Yes, I think after that strenuous morning workout, I need a nap.”
Grinning, he kissed the top of her head and watched as her smile faded, her eyes closed, and she appeared blissfully serene. It was then Tony remembered something he wanted to say. With more authority in his tone, he added, “Claire.”
Her eyes immediately opened. His tenor wasn’t playful. Although Claire didn’t speak, she obviously recognized his change in meaning. Perched on the edge of the bed, Tony reminded her, “If you leave the estate—”
She stilled his words with the touch of her hand. The large diamond on her left hand glistened, as she responded appropriately, “I promise, I’ll take Clay.”
“This isn’t debatable.”
“Tony, I’m not debating – I’m trying to sleep.”
He kissed her lips. “I’ll call when I touch down in London.”
She nodded. “Be safe. I think Eric’s waiting.”
Tony hadn’t relived that memory in over a week. All the questioning from the FBI brought it back along with so many others. They seemed so real, he wanted to reach out and touch her. For just a moment, Tony believed he could actually smell her perfume.
The slap of the binder hitting the aluminum table pulled Tony from his fantasy and back to reality. He must have fallen asleep. “What the hell?”
“Food’s here.” Brent’s voice sounded strained.
“What were you reading?”
“I gave it to you, but you might want to eat first. It sure as hell ruined my appetite.”
Tony looked suspiciously at the binder as Brent continued, “Since I’m your personal counsel, we need to talk about it. As your friend, I don’t want to.” Brent grabbed a Styrofoam box and leaned against the wall.
With an overwhelming feeling of doom, Tony pushed the food aside and picked up the binder. Instantly, the words on the page assaulted him. They weren’t new—they weren’t a revelation—they were, however, supposed to be gone.
Three years ago, Marcus Evergreen informed him of Claire’s testimony. At that time he made deals and greased palms. This documentation was supposed to disappear. He paid quite a bit of money to get it lost in the shuffle. His pulse raced as he thought about promises he’d heard.
Now—now not only was it present—it was in the hands of the FBI! Brent had just read it!
Tony’s heart sank. Brent was right, his appetite was gone. He paced the confines of the small room and began to read:
January 26, 2012: Claire Nichols Rawlings:
I swear my recounting to be true, to the best of my knowledge. I met Anthony Rawlings March 15, 2010 in Atlanta, Georgia at a restaurant named the Red Wing. I was tending bar and he was a customer. That night I agreed to meet him at the bar for a drink. We had wine and talked for about an hour or so. I left the bar alone. The next day, he called the bar and asked me out on a date. Initially, I declined his offer. He was persistent and I agreed to a date the next night. I knew his name, but didn’t know who he was. I really didn’t.
On the 17
th
of March, he picked me up at the Red Wing after my shift. Earlier that day, I went grocery shopping. I think that’s significant. It proves I had no intentions of walking away from my life. I had milk in the refrigerator! After dinner, I agreed to go to his hotel room for dessert and some more wine. He was friendly and sensual. I do admit that I slept with him that night.
The next time I woke, I was in his home in Iowa. I didn’t know where I was. I remember very little about how I got to Iowa. There are flashes of memories—none of them are good. I remember crying and banging on the door. I remember begging for someone to let me out of that room. I remember being restrained.
Oh God, I remember him...
Tony’s vision blurred. He didn’t want to relive these memories. The ones of her smiling and happy, those he wanted. Not this. His stomach churned.
Had that really been him? Had he truly done those awful things?
Closing his eyes, he saw beyond the words. He remembered what Claire’s account never would—he recalled the hours the drugs took away from her: