Convicted (55 page)

Never once during the conversation did Harry get the feeling she knew of Claire’s location or that she knew anything about him. That reaction begged the question,
why would Catherine London order an attack on him or threaten his family?
Obviously, the person who did it knew him—knew he was FBI—and knew about Ilona and Jillian. Even though the deputy director had reassigned Harry, he knew that he couldn’t let go of this particular piece of the puzzle. One day, he’d learn who threatened his family, his life, and his investigation.

Liz stirred, murmuring as she rubbed her cheek against his pillow. Her blonde hair and soft skin pulled him closer. He wanted to be honest with her, he really did; nonetheless, it wouldn’t do either one of them any good for her to know that he still thought about Claire, from time to time. Sometimes when he’s alone he remembered what it was like to be with her. It wasn’t just the sex. He thought about how scared she was when she first moved to Palo Alto. Every time he remembered her buying her first cell phone, a smile came to his lips. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but he felt his cheeks raise. When he first met Claire, she was like a frightened fawn exploring the world on her own. He was drawn in by a need to protect her from all the dangers—including Anthony Rawlings. Even before Harry knew the details, he knew that she’d been hurt. Looking into her emerald eyes, he knew that it was something he didn’t want her to experience again.

Harry cared about Liz. He could even see spending the rest of his life with her. She was different than Claire—so strong and independent.
How many women would take him back after what he’d done?
Granted she gave him hell about it—he deserved it. Harry admired her strength and strong will. With an appreciative smile, he knew he also admired her ingenuity. Never once did she blow his cover with Claire or the Vandersols, yet her jealousy played a significant role in his and Claire’s first big fight. When Amber received the call—at the last minute—about Rawlings being at the gala, Harry knew Liz had withheld the information on purpose. He even told Amber.

Watching her sleep peacefully, Harry moved her soft blonde hair away from her neck.
Damn, he loved that neck.
Fighting the urge to wake her, he smiled.

There was no doubt that he was pissed during the night of the gala. He was pissed at Liz
and
at Claire; however, now Harry had to give Liz an
A
for effort. She took the cards she’d been dealt and played them—she played them very well.

“Why are you smiling?” Liz asked as her eyes opened.

“I was just thinking about that sexy neck of yours.” His fingers went to her collarbone and traced a winding path over her neck and down to her breast.

Liz reached for his hand. Momentarily, their palms touched and their fingers intertwined. “Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“One more question, and then I’ll drop it—I promise.”

He exhaled and laid his head on his pillow. “Go ahead.”

“How do I know that if you run into her in the future that you won’t still have feelings?”

“I don’t know. Some couples have this thing called
trust
. I realize I’m the one who needs to earn it back”—He lifted his head and allowed his lips to lightly trail over her neck. Breathlessly he whispered—“I will.”

“In Venice?”

Harry lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. “In Venice—what?”

“Did you want to be with her again? Did you sleep together—or anything?”

“No!” Harry pulled the covers back and abruptly left the bed. “Why are you on this kick? No! She was planning on meeting up with Rawlings.” Pacing nude by the bed, Harry lifted his arms. “I screwed up. All I can say is—I’m sorry.”

Liz moved to her knees and crawled to the edge of the bed. With her face lifted, she cooed, “I believe you. I can tell you’re upset. I’m sorry. It’s just that after I saw that picture of the two of you holding hands—well, I guess I needed to know.”

“You saw the picture? How?”

“Amber showed it to me.” She lifted herself on her knees, kissed his lips, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her breasts against his hard chest. “I believe you. If you say it’s over—it’s over.” She moved slightly away to look into his eyes. “Oh, please don’t tell Amber that you know I saw the picture. She just wanted me to be sure that I knew everything—so that I could make an informed decision.”

Her grin widened as she pulled Harry back down on the bed. When his head hit the pillow, she leaned over him. The warmth of her flattened breasts covered his wide chest as their skin united. Liz continued, “She told me not to tell you.” Her words came between butterfly kisses to Harry’s cheek and neck. “I probably shouldn’t have”—“but Agent Baldwin”—“now that I know”—“my decision is informed”—“and”—“I don’t want”—“to let you go”—“again!”

Harry flipped Liz onto her back. Before he could speak, she begged, “Please, Agent, can you show me how much you’ll miss me? Please?”

Harry couldn’t resist her begging—her flushed cheeks—her trusting gaze—or her disheveled hair. It was more than he could take. Any thought unrelated to becoming one, with the woman below him, momentarily slipped away.

Focus on things you can control
.

—John Wooden

“Monsieur?”

Tony pulled his gaze away from Claire and looked toward Madeline. In her arms, she held a stack of towels and sheets.

“We need to clean her and cool her.”

Tony nodded and reached for a wash cloth. After going to the bathroom and saturating it with cool water, he folded it in thirds and gently placed it on Claire’s forehead. His soft tone resonated through their suddenly cavernous suite, “I know you haven’t been sleeping well.” Thunder shook the house. Tony continued, unfazed, “If you need to sleep now, it’s all right, but pretty soon, our little one will be here. He or she needs their mommy.” Tony fought the emotion boiling in his throat. “Claire,
I
need you. With
you
I’m someone I’m proud to be. P—please—don’t leave me.”

The pressure of someone’s hand fell on Tony’s shoulder. He was on the edge of a dark abyss. Fear pulled at him, inciting emotions he couldn’t control. Anthony Rawlings controlled everything and everyone. The sudden impotence filled his world with red. Other than Claire, he was surrounded by employees.
Didn’t these people know anything? They didn’t address him without a title, and they didn’t touch him!
Tony inhaled and looked toward the touch. His gaze met Madeline’s as she smiled a sad smile. Instantaneously, the red faded. Tony covered Madeline’s hand and relished her support.

Madeline said, “Monsieur, Madame el, she’s not gone—she’s resting. The island cure I gave her is helping her. She needs her strength for your baby. We must make her comfortable.”

Tony didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to do. It was an uneasy situation under normal circumstances. With Claire’s life on the line, Tony felt completely helpless. Swallowing his pride, he asked, “H—how can we make her comfortable?”

Madeline explained her plan. Once Tony approved, she put it into motion. First, she instructed Francis and Phil to carry a chaise lounge in from the lanai. Rain covered the floor when they opened the door and brought the long lounge into the bedroom. Madeline immediately dried the moisture from the floor and from the lounge cushions; then she proceeded to cover the chair in towels and sheets.

Phil and Francis went back to the hall and kept silent vigil, while Madeline and Tony removed Claire’s wet clothes. They cleaned, rinsed, and dried her with cloths and towels from the bathroom. Once she was dry, Tony gently lifted her to the lounge chair where they dressed her in a nightgown and covered her shivering body with a clean sheet. The chase lounge was much lower than a normal bed; however, since the mattress of their bed was saturated, it gave her a clean place to lie.

No longer did station matter. Madeline was no longer house staff or an employee—Tony willingly submitted to her control of the situation. If she told him to jump, it would be he who asked,
how high?
For the first time in his memory, Tony didn’t want power. He knew nothing about giving birth. Without a doctor, Madeline was their best bet. She was the dealer—she controlled the deck and had his full respect and attention.

As the sky darkened and night time came, Tony did the only thing he could. He sat by Claire with one hand on their unborn child. When he’d feel the baby move, he’d tell Madeline, “I felt something.” His other hand continually touched Claire. It may have been her hand, her cheek, or her forehead. He didn’t care where they connected—as long as they did.

Throughout the night, Claire’s pulse remained steady, and their baby continued to move. It wasn’t until dawn when Claire began to wake. At first, it was the incoherent mutterings of earlier. She pleaded, “Tony...no...gone...Tony...no...” Eventually, the pleadings morphed into tears. With each outburst, another piece of Tony’s heart broke. Claire was fighting a battle only she could see. He would’ve said, paid, or done anything to bring her relief—he couldn’t.

All he could do, was offer himself. Never leaving his wife’s side, Tony repeatedly wiped her tear coated cheeks with a soft handkerchief, and each time she’d mutter, in his calmest tone, he’d reassure, “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. No one is gone...” He didn’t know if she could hear his words; nevertheless, saying them brought a sense of comfort to their suite.

By the time the sun rose behind the still billowing clouds, Tony’s head rested quietly on the side of the chair. There hadn’t been a change in hours. He didn’t intend to fall asleep, but the rumbling of thunder, rhythm of rain, and constant in Claire’s condition allowed him to slip into a false sense of security.

Claire couldn’t remember where she was. Her last memory was of the suite in Iowa. The copper colored walls she remembered were gone; instead, the white woodwork and golden drapes of 2010 were back. The fear that infiltrated her thoughts and drained her world of color was the overwhelming sensation of isolation. Claire was, once again, alone. No longer did she wake to the sounds of her paradise. Birds no longer sang and the surf no longer roared. The only reoccurring noise was that of the beep. She didn’t need to look, to know why it occurred. Claire knew too well—the beep happened whenever the door to the rest of the world opened.

Alone forever, the beep was a continual reminder of her fate. Claire didn’t want to hear the sound or see the person who’d enter. There was a time, somewhere long ago, when Claire yearned to see Catherine, she prayed for that. Now, each time the door opened, she prayed for someone—anyone else, yet each tray of food—each outfit set out—everything necessary for life—came at the hands of the woman who was no longer her comforter—but her tormentor. If Claire turned, she knew she’d see Catherine’s sadistic gray eyes.

Though her life was hell—it no longer mattered. Claire’s will to continue vanished with her husband and child. She saw the food which arrived three times a day. Never once did she desire to eat. She saw the French doors which opened only upon request. There was nothing beyond the panes she craved. Colors were gone. Showering, dressing, sleeping, and waking were inconsequential. Claire’s thoughts and actions were consumed with one desire: to be with her family. If her goal could only be obtained through death, she willed it to occur.

This sense of doom overwhelmed her as she woke. She didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see the golden drapes. Tentatively, more from reflex than want, Claire pried her eyes open. As she tried to focus, the world she feared was gone; instead of white woodwork, a thatched ceiling filled her view. A slow, methodical fan twirled above her bed and cooler than normal air moved through their suite.

Though the angle didn’t seem right, she knew she was in paradise. When she attempted to move, stiffness affected each joint. Claire felt as though her body were bruised. With pressure on her stomach, she suddenly remembered their baby. Tears of loss filled her eyes as she reached for her midsection. Before her hand moved that far, her fingers brushed a full head of hair. Raising her face, Claire’s lips morphed into a grin as she saw the familiar head of dark hair highlighted with renegade white. It was the most perfect head of hair she’d ever seen.