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  She fought to steady herself as the room wobbled off center. It was the finality with which he spoke, as if his comment were beyond reproach. “It is.” Her voice less convincing than she’d hoped. She inhaled to emphasize her next word, “Anton.”

  His back straightened, and his eyes intensified, “My name is Anthony. You may still address me as Tony.”

  “That’s very gentlemanly of you. Do you not think as your wife, I deserved to know your true name was Anton Rawls?” Claire watched an internal battle launch and rage within her ex-husband. She knew him and could read his non-verbal clues. Others may not recognize the scene before her, but she did.

  Externally Tony remained stoic as he fought for control. Finally he spoke, his voice deceivingly calm, “Where could you possibly come up with such a story?”

  “Why, Anton, it was in your box of confessions.”

  Tony stared in utter shock and disbelief. Claire wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen his facade shatter as quickly. Though he remained still, she imagined him scurrying to pick-up the pieces of his usually intact veneer. His voice gained strength with each syllable. “I assure you, I have no idea what you are saying.”

  “The information you sent me in prison.”

  Before they could continue, a waiter appeared beside their table with menus. Placing the binders in front of each, he asked if they were interested in hearing about the specials. Concurrently, they answered, “No.” The waiter apologized for the interruption and meekly backed away from the table. Tony reached for the leather folder; his fingertips blanched, as he squeezed the helpless menu.

  It didn’t make sense. The writing on the note was his, as was the writing on the photos. Although Claire was reasonably certain he’d ended this conversation, she decided to go ahead and ask the question screaming in her head, “Are you saying you didn’t send me a box of information?”

  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 mine field. 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, 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 you have 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, and contemplated 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 were not brave, or stupid, enough to try.

  Claire chose to use the word brave.

  When Claire entered her condo 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. 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.”

  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, your ex-husband didn’t treat you well.” He tried to read her eyes; they were changing into that stoic noncommittal stare. “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 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. He hadn’t realized the back of her dress was open. 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.”

  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’s not new. I wore it in Texas. And I can assure you, 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 would really like the chance to understand you better, the real you.”

  Softly she said, “Good night, Harry,” and 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 and not think about the man that challenged her sanity. It wasn’t fair to Harry, be with him and think 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.

  Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together.

  - Eugene Ionesco

  Chapter 17

  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 stubbled neck, which with each exaggerated pulse of his carotid artery, provided the amazing scent. It was so close.

  Yet, as much as she tried, 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’d 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 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 two. Being the third time she’d awoken since leaving Harry down the hall. She decided it was the night that never ends. Lamb Comps 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 over and over. One minute feeling cold, she’d ensconce her body with a soft cocoon and drift to sleep. What seemed like moments later -- she’d awake, violently thrashing to free herself from the sweltering coverings. Thank god, Amber was out of town. Claire believed 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 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, not 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. But, she had the pictures. The writing on the back of those, she was certain was his.

  Again, thankful Amber wasn’t home, Claire chose to forgo another all-consuming dream and get-up. 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. Slowly, she was 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 to 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 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 sitting hour after hour while Tony worked, required to be at the ready, in case her services were demanded. At the time she saw it as his display of power and control over her time and body. 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 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 shuttered 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. Nevertheles
s, she’d listened to web-conferences, webinars, and unnumbered telephone conversations. Hell, she listened to those in cars and even on his plane. 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 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, 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.