Consequences

  Consequences

  Aleatha Romig

  Copyright © 2011 by Aleatha Romig.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913314

  ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4653-4188-4

  Softcover 978-1-4653-4187-7

  Ebook 978-1-4653-4189-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book was printed in the United States of America.

  To order additional copies of this book, contact:

  Xlibris Corporation

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  99017

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Afterward

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you especially to my wonderful husband, children, and mother. I love you all! You have my undying love and gratitude for indulging me while I pursued my dream.

  It is not the strongest of the species that survives,

  not the most intelligent that survives.

  It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.

  —Charles Darwin

  Chapter 1

  The fade into consciousness happens slowly like the melting of ice. The water is still present. It just changes form. Claire’s mind couldn’t process the entirety of her circumstances. She knew she was awakening. She felt the warmth of soft sheets and a thick comforter against her skin, but it felt wrong. Where was she?

  Suddenly, the ice was liquid, and her veins filled with the cold condensing fluid. Her heartbeat intensified as the poor muscle attempted to pump the viscous solution. The sting of her swollen eyelids brought back memories of her arrival to this place. She strained to listen, to hear anything. The only sound that registered was the incessant ringing within her ears. More with curiosity than courage, she cautiously opened her eyes. Peering around the room, she discovered that she was indeed alone. Momentary relief caused her chest to contract and a sigh to escape her lips.

  Under other circumstances, she might relish the amazing softness of the silk sheets or the grandeur of the king-sized bed. Today, however, despite the warm cocoon, her body shivered as the fog of her mind cleared. The memories of the last night began to surface from the depths of her unconsciousness. Perhaps it was a nightmare. She tried to convince herself it wasn’t real.

  But if it wasn’t real, how did she get here? And where was here?

  Enormous windows, currently covered by golden drapes, allowed just enough sunlight for her eyes to adjust. For the first time since her arrival, she really looked at her surroundings. She saw the four ornately carved corner posts of the bed. They were exquisite, and looking beyond, so was the room where it sat. The alluring bedroom looked larger and more lavish than any she had ever seen. The room looked like heaven, but she already knew it was hell.

  Again, she listened—nothing. The only sounds were the memories in her head. She heard herself screaming until her throat felt raw, and pounding on the bedroom door until her clenched fist ached. No one heard. Or if anyone heard, no one cared. This beautiful room was her prison.

  Slowly, she attempted to sit. The act in itself caused discomfort, more evidence that last night was real. Slowly shifting, she managed to see more of her cell, a sitting area with an overstuffed chair, complementary sofa, small fireplace in the wall surrounded by marble tiles, and a cozy table for two with a crystal vase of fresh flowers. The intimacy of the table caused Claire’s stomach to churn. The bile that seeped into her throat tasted vile. She tried desperately to swallow.

  Conspicuously missing were dressers or other furniture usually associated with a bedroom. Yet dimly she remembered being told that this was her new bedroom. Looking around the perimeter of the room, she saw beautiful white woodwork: built-in bookcases, shelves, and three doors. The one farthest from her bed appeared solid, firm, and unharmed after the pounding she’d delivered the night before. There was no reason to believe that it would now be unlocked. What Claire did know with some certainty was that it held her only avenue to freedom. She needed to find her way back through that door.

  Closing her eyes, she remembered the events of last night. As the memories started to flow from the recesses of her unconsciousness, her new goal was to stop them. She failed, seeing him behind her closed lids.

  Anthony Rawlings was so different from the man she met less than a week ago—the handsome tall man with brown hair and the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. He’d been polite, kind, and gentlemanly. Last night, none of those words could be used to describe him. To say he was cruel would not explain what she endured. One could say demanding, aggressive, abrasive, controlling—but above all, rough.

  Shifting slightly, she realized that the slightest movement made her muscles hurt. Her thighs throbbed. Her body was tender, and her mouth swollen and raw. She remembered his scent, his taste, and the sound of his voice. Those thoughts instigated a revolt deep in the recesses of her stomach. At that moment, the images of him made her heart race—not in anticipation, but fear. This was insane. Things like this happened on crime shows and movies, not in real life and not to people like her.

  She tried to censor the memories to find the one of him finally leaving the room, then the images of her futile barrage on the door. Tears fell from her swollen eyes as the visions replayed in her mind. She laid her head back on the velvety pillow, allowing herself the luxury of more sleep and an escape from this reality.

  The next time she woke, Claire knew she couldn’t put off looking in the other doors any longer. She needed to find the one that held the bathroom. The sumptuous carpet enveloped her feet as she stepped from the bed. Despite the plush carpeting, the weight of her body made her legs cry out in pain. Sadly, she remembered crying out more than once. Her internal monologue screamed with unanswered questions: How did this happen? How did I get here? Why am I here? And most crucially, how can I get out?

  The three doors she’d counted earlier were arranged, two near the bed an
d one by the sitting area. Claire knew the lone door was her passage to freedom. She wrapped a sheet around her aching body and slowly approached the massive barrier of solid wood. The doorknob was the kind that was really a lever. Anxiety caused her hand to tremble as she slowly reached for the cold metal. If it moved, would she flee wrapped only in a sheet? Hell yes!

  Excitement quickly turned to disappointment as the lever remained perfectly horizontal. It didn’t even wiggle as many locked doors do. The solid impenetrable barrier stood unyielding. Despite the expected outcome, disappointment caused the ache within Claire’s body to intensify. Turning around, she viewed her cell. One of the other two doors had the best chance of holding her desired destination. She opened the first door and revealed a closet, one the size of most bedrooms. It could more accurately be considered a dressing room with built-in drawers, shoe racks, shelves, and hanging racks. Surprisingly, the racks and shelves were full. These clothes seemed to come straight from a Saks photo shoot, not the kind Claire would or could choose for herself. She was more the Target or Vintage type. These clothes belonged to someone who lived the life of the rich and famous. Who was that someone? Claire wondered why she was in that person’s room and why she remembered being told it was hers.

  Opening the next door, Claire found her destination. She stepped into a bathroom like one she’d seen on television, large and very white. The coolness of the tile hit the soles of her bare feet. White marble, white porcelain, silver accents, and glass surrounded her. If it weren’t for the plush purple towels, the room would be totally devoid of color. There was a large garden tub and a full glass shower that sported large and small showerheads from every direction. The sink adjoined a dressing table with a large lighted mirror and stool.

  She turned to see the person in the mirror. The image frightened Claire as she studied the reflection. Her tangled brown hair framed an unfamiliar face. There were bruises around her lips trying to match the color of the towels, and her left temple appeared red and swollen. Slowly dropping the sheet, the visual evidence of the soreness she experienced could be seen as red and purple bruises over her body and extremities. The vision restarted her tears. With steely determination, she gripped the lever of another door and found her destination.

  A plush white bathrobe hung near the shower. Twisting the knobs to adjust the water, Claire decided a shower would make her feel better. Hot steamy water hit her skin as she stepped into the spacious shower. The prickling sensation of a thousand needles pierced her shoulders as the hot water flowed over her battered muscles. It was a sensation of both pleasure and pain. She allowed the water to continue its assault, and as time passed and the temperature remained high, her muscles relaxed. The sweet floral aroma of the shampoo and body soap replaced the odors of last night. A renewed sense of strength filled her resolve. Somehow she would survive this nightmare.

  Claire developed a plan as she used the luxurious lavender towel to dry her battered body. She would talk to Anthony and explain that this was a mistake. They could split ways, no questions asked and no charges pressed. The soft robe warmed her, providing a bogus sense of security.

  The woman in the mirror looked better. However, her dark hair now fell messily in wet tangles. Without thinking, Claire began to open drawers and cabinets. Just like the closet, the bath was fully stocked. In front of her, she saw thousands of dollars’ worth of name-brand cosmetics. She found everything from skin care to eyeliner. Of course, there was also an array of hair supplies. She was wearing someone else’s robe, sleeping in her bed, and showering in her bathroom. Using her hairbrush only added to the list of intrusions. Claire didn’t have many options.

  In the medicine cabinet, she found a toothbrush still encased in cellophane. Claire couldn’t resist. The shower, soap, shampoo, and now toothpaste all helped her feel less soiled.

  When Claire opened the door to the bedroom, she was startled to see a tray of food waiting on the dining table. Prior to that moment, she ignored the pangs of hunger. God knows the thoughts of the previous night made her stomach turn. Yet the aroma from the covered plate intrigued her. She lifted the lid to discover steaming scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fresh fruit. On the tray, she also noticed a glass of orange juice, one of water, and a carafe of coffee.

  With her stomach full, body relaxed from the shower, and no immediate path to freedom, Claire decided she wanted more sleep. It was then that she realized the bed hadn’t only been made, but the sheets had also been changed. The room appeared as though the horror of last night never occurred. Her body told her otherwise. She pulled back the covers, climbed between the soft satin sheets, inhaled the fresh clean scent, and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the escape she wanted, but it was a temporary diversion.

  The knocking at the door near the sitting area woke Claire. She’d been somewhere in a dream far away. The knock and the unfamiliar surroundings left her temporarily disoriented. How long had she been sleeping? Sunlight, though not as bright, continued to seep from the edge of the drapes. The repeated raps brought her emotions and thoughts dramatically to the present. Fear gripped her being as she considered who was on the other side of the door. Yes, she was a twenty-six-year-old adult. Yet at that moment, Claire decided to behave as any five-year-old child would and imitate sleep. Lying still in bed, she heard the door open.

  Tentatively opening her eyes, she watched as a woman quietly entered the room. Given Claire’s perspective, it was difficult to tell; but the woman appeared taller than her by a few inches, with salt-and-pepper hair. Claire assumed she was about the age of her mother, had her mother been alive. As the woman approached, Claire decided to speak. “I’m sorry if I’m in your room.”

  “No, Ms. Claire, it is your suite, not mine. I am here to help you get ready for dinner. My name is Catherine.”

  Claire slowly sat up in amazement. What the hell did she mean get ready for dinner? She was being held prisoner in some luxurious suite, covered in bruises, and this person was supposed to help her get ready for dinner. “I’m not trying to sound ungrateful. But what do you mean ‘ready for dinner’?”

  “Mr. Rawlings will be here precisely at 7:00 p.m. for dinner. He expects you to be ready and dressed accordingly. I presumed you might need some assistance.”

  At first, Claire couldn’t wrap her mind around the entire scenario. He wanted her dressed for dinner. Who the hell did he think he was? “Listen, if you want to assist me, let me out of here.” Claire did her best to keep her voice from rising another octave, yet the fear of seeing Anthony and the possibility of escape made that all but impossible.

  “Ms. Claire, that is not up to me. I am here to assist you as I can.” It didn’t make any sense. Yet in the desperation of the situation, for some reason, Claire believed this lady. Catherine continued, “We only have an hour. Perhaps we could begin with your hair?”

  Undaunted by Claire’s appearance or even the circumstance of her presence, Catherine’s calmness eased Claire. She shook her head and sighed. Remembering the resolve from her shower, she spoke with a convincing authority. “Catherine, thank you for offering to help, but I don’t plan on dressing for dinner. I actually believe there has been a mistake. I will be leaving here soon.” While Claire explained the misunderstanding, Catherine came and went from the closet with a blue cocktail dress and matching shoes. “Oh, I don’t know whom those clothes belong to.”

  “Why, miss, they belong to you. Now we really should move along. And even if you do not plan to eat, do you not need to wear clothes?” Claire noticed her pattern of speech seemed formal. She couldn’t place the origin. It definitely wasn’t the Georgia accent she’d learned to appreciate and tried desperately not to duplicate.

  Catherine gently took Claire’s hand and walked her into the bathroom. Claire obediently sat at the dressing table as Catherine began to gently brush her hair, deciding she wouldn’t protest Catherine. Instead, she would save her energy to face Anthony.

  “There are cosmetics in the drawers in fro
nt of you. Perhaps you could begin to apply some while I do your hair.” Then she added, “You are very pretty without it, but after sleeping most of the day, I believe it will make you feel better.”

  Claire looked into the mirror. Seeing her eyes, temple, and lips, she began to cry. It wasn’t the sobs of earlier, but a rush of tears quietly flowing down her cheeks.

  “Now, miss, that will not help the situation. Mr. Rawlings appreciates punctuality. Crying will only make the cosmetics run.”

  She began to explain to Catherine her desperation, “I don’t want to face him.” But after the first sentence, she hesitated. Claire didn’t know this woman. She obviously worked for Anthony. Why would she confide in her? Then Claire looked in the reflection, not at herself but at the woman behind her. Her eyes were the color of steel, gray and soft. Her expression wasn’t one of duty or pity, but somehow Claire sensed compassion. It may have been wishful thinking, but for some reason, the words continued to flow. “After last night, I feel so . . . dirty. You don’t know what he did, what he made me do. I am too embarrassed.” Her words came accompanied by tears, and her nose began to run.

  Catherine’s voice held no judgment for either Claire or Anthony, instead a means for understanding, as if that could be possible from Claire. “I have known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. Did anything happen last night that he did not want to happen?”

  Claire shook her head no. “Everything that happened he wanted to happen.”

  “Then there is no need for you to be embarrassed. It is when you do something that he doesn’t want you to do. That is when you do not want to face Mr. Rawlings.”

  Catherine went to the cabinet, removed a washcloth, and wet it in the sink. She handed it to Claire, who compliantly wiped her face and began to apply makeup. It wasn’t long until they were satisfied with the results. The bruises were concealed quite well under a covering of foundation and powder. The lipstick made the swelling less noticeable. When Catherine entered the bathroom with the dress, Claire realized she was naked under the robe.