His lips seized hers. Without hesitation, she met him with equal ferocity. When their force eased, their eyes met, and his sparkled as he replied, “Oh, I do. I love your mouth, your eyes, your neck, and every other part of your amazing body; however, some of the things you do with that amazing mouth I like better than others.”
“Really?” she bantered, as she purposely suckled his neck.
Tony seized her shoulders. “Do you plan on going back out there for dinner? I’m asking, because if you don’t stop, it isn’t happening.”
Claire smiled. It was true; they had a lot to discuss, and a lot to work out; nevertheless, she felt empowered. She knew at that moment dinner could be a memory. If she continued her persuasion, then they could be naked and in bed in seconds; however, she needed food. Somewhere in her memory, she heard his advice, I suggest you eat. You’ll need your strength. Grinning, she replied, “I do, and they’re probably waiting.” Pointing toward one of the other doors, Claire said, “The bathroom is over there. I’m going to freshen up. I’m afraid with my crying I look like hell.”
“You, my dear, could never look like hell. You’re radiant!”
“Oh, really?” Claire smiled knowingly at Tony. “Give me a minute”—she kissed his cheek—“After dinner, when we get back here, you can remind me what it was you liked my mouth to do.”
Again, he pulled her close for one last embrace. “It’s a date. I certainly hope Madeline doesn’t cook twelve course meals.”
Once Claire was ready, Tony disappeared into the bathroom, and Claire went into the closet. She found the box from the other day, the one with the cell phones and sat it on the floor. Kneeling, she looked into the depth of the container. At the bottom was her long gold chain with her engagement ring. Until a few days ago, she’d kept it close to her heart. After her conversation with Tony she’d decided that there was no longer a reason to wear it. Begrudgingly, she tucked it away in the container.
Now, things were different. Claire removed the ring from the chain and placed it on the fourth finger of her left hand. Feeling his presence, Claire sighed and looked up. Tony was standing in the doorway, his dark eyes watching. By the erratic beating of her heart, she knew he saw everything.
“I took it off the other day,” she confessed.
Taking her left hand in his, Tony helped her stand. Though his eyes hadn’t softened, his words were more of a plea, “I hope you never feel the need to take it off again.” Peering into the box, Tony added, “It seems as though it would’ve been difficult to hear that phone ring, tucked away, in a box, in the closet.”
Claire smiled and pushed herself against his chest. “Since I don’t believe it ever would have, we’ve someone to thank. My guess is—he’s waiting for us for dinner too.”
They left their suite hand in hand. While they’d been alone, the sun had fully set. In the middle of nowhere, the beautiful blue that filled the daytime view was now hidden behind shades of black. A star-filled sky sparkled above a dark sea, and the gentle rush of the waves filled the air as a soft breeze blew through the open doors of the dining room. Before they reached the others, Tony squeezed Claire’s hand. “This place is amazing. Now that I look around, it’s beyond words.”
Claire agreed. “Now, it’s truly paradise.”
The evil that is in the world almost always comes of ignorance, and good intentions may do as much harm as malevolence if they lack understanding.
—Albert Camus
Catherine sat at Tony’s grand desk. She didn’t consider it his any longer—it was hers, like so many other things. Besides, from all the reports she’d heard, he wouldn’t be sitting there anytime soon. Though the FBI wouldn’t confirm or deny, Catherine was under the impression Tony was either in custody or on the run. All she knew for sure was that he wasn’t in Iowa. After meeting with Tom and Brent, the provisions of Anthony Rawlings’ trust went into effect. Catherine Marie London was officially the executor of the Rawlings’ estate and anything related to it. The title came with a nice trust fund. That money, plus the large sum she’d accumulated over the years, left Catherine more than financially solvent.
Once in a while, she thought about the money she’d given to Claire. Catherine wasn’t sure exactly how much it was; however, whenever she started to regret giving it all away, her mind would go to the possibility of Tony on the run. If he were out there, she knew, without a doubt, he’d go for that money. Imagining him finding an empty box brought a smile to her face.
For almost twenty-five years, Anton had been in control, or so he thought. It was true; right after Samuel and Amanda’s accident, Marie had offered to work for Anton. After all, she was alone, and he was all she had left of Nathaniel. The arrangement wasn’t meant to last a lifetime. Nathaniel told Marie multiple times how he wanted her to live; never once did he say he wanted her to work as Anton’s housekeeper.
It wasn’t that Anton had ever been unkind. On the contrary, if anything, he’d been indifferent. Perhaps that was worse. He seemed to take Catherine for granted—she just was. It never appeared as though he worried if she would or wouldn’t be there, if she would or wouldn’t carry out his objectives—he never asked. Smirking to herself, she admitted that his complacency worked to her advantage on more than one occasion.
Maybe her name wasn’t Rawls, but what did a name matter? Now that she had the legal documents confirming her title as executor, Anton’s office was gone. It was hers—as was the house, the grounds, and the estate. Catherine Marie leaned back against the plush leather chair and scanned the room. The regal decor was very similar to Nathaniel’s office from a quarter century ago. She’d always liked that. Smiling, Catherine decided the view from her current side of the desk was definitely the more appealing perspective. She also decided the room could use a feminine touch.
Catherine opened the drawer on the lower right to inspect Anton’s private files. She fingered the tabs; in this paperless world, it surprised her he’d kept so many printed documents. Thankfully, the Iowa City Police hadn’t felt the need to confiscate everything as evidence.
They did take all of Claire’s documents. That didn’t matter to Catherine; she’d already gone through everything on Claire’s laptop and was honestly impressed with the amount of research Claire had accomplished during her short time in California. Catherine never imagined Claire would uncover Patrick Chester. The entire turn of events was far better than Catherine could ever have imagined or planned. The only possible better scenario would have included Chester actually killing Claire. If he had then Catherine would have been able to watch Anton’s anguish first hand.
Reminiscing, Catherine admitted she did get the pleasure of witnessing some of it right after Claire’s disappearance; however, to see Anton’s face in Geneva when he realized Claire wasn’t taken, but instead, she’d left him again, and disappeared with his money and his bastard child—oh, that would have been priceless! Well, not priceless—it cost Catherine whatever amount of money had been in those accounts.
It wasn’t that Catherine originally planned on extending Nathaniel’s decree to his grandson. Anton was safe as long as he stayed focused and on task. All the time and effort planting seeds, watering them, and watching them grow, paid off on more than one occasion. Everything was going the right way until—until his damn obsession with Claire Nichols.
Catherine knew something had changed after the Nichols’ funeral. At first, she feared Anton had discovered her undertakings, or the true extent of them. That wasn’t it. He’d been watching the Nichols family for a while; however, Catherine misinterpreted the depth of his fixation. How unrealistic of her to think Anton’s actual desire was to honor Nathaniel. Although Anton claimed that was his goal, his actions proved otherwise. Bringing Claire to the estate was even acceptable—at first. It was when he began to take her out into public that Catherine knew his motivations were changing.
That was all right. Catherine could adapt too. As long as Catherine was covertly in control, she was a
ble to keep her goals in sight. Besides, Claire and Anton were both so easily read and played. Even though it appeared to be a high stakes game of poker, it was more like Old Maid. The trick for success was in knowing the opponents. The fact that they didn’t know they were opponents also aided her effort.
Catherine knew Anton better than he knew himself. She knew his limits and his needs—not sexually, of course. No, Catherine understood Anton’s craving for control. It was his unspoken aspiration to be like Nathaniel. The grandfather he knew dominated everyone and everything. Some might say it was a disservice that Nathaniel showed so few people his gentler side. In hindsight, that omission proved very useful to Catherine. She could fuel Anton’s need and depend upon his impulsiveness. Truly, it was a comical contradiction. For a man who prided himself on control, with the right triggers, he could lose it all. Anton didn’t hold the monopoly on impulsivity. Catherine could also continually depend upon Claire’s impulsiveness.
To be good—very good at manipulation, a person must understand their opponents’ motivation. Anton possessed a lifelong yearning to please Nathaniel. Claire was much simpler. She craved interaction and affection. The smartest move Catherine ever made was sending only Carlos into that suite while Anton was away. Looking back on it, the move had been pure genius. In a way, Catherine hoped it paralleled Claire’s current situation. Oh well, perhaps Claire could learn the language of wherever she was?
Claire’s impulsiveness turned the key on each car that drove her off the estate. That same impulsiveness led her to burn the documents in her prison delivery. At least she read them before she destroyed them. That information was the seed that later grew to her impressive research and blossomed into the police department’s evidence.
Besides impulsivity, Claire proved exceptionally obedient. The note in the box told her to read the entire contents—of course—she read it all. Catherine admitted the manipulation of Claire was amusing. After she was gone and in prison, Catherine even missed it. Claire and Anton’s obliviousness throughout the whole game was the best part. This was especially true in the beginning, when he thought Claire knew him well enough to behave accordingly, and Claire feared his reaction if she misbehaved. Neither one realized Catherine was the one setting the rules—it was perfect.
If Governor Bosley hadn’t pardoned Claire, Catherine believed Claire would’ve used that information in the box to expose Anton’s secrets. The knowledge combined with the isolation would’ve energized Claire’s retaliation. After all, who wouldn’t want vengeance after what Claire experienced?
That was as far into the past that Catherine would allow her mind to wonder, because it was during that time that her plan took an unexpected turn. Anton was upset; his anger was peaked. Claire should have been angry. They should have worked to bring each other down. That wasn’t what happened. Not only were they not adversaries, their behavior with one another changed to a more even playing field.
Catherine encouraged Claire’s return to the estate for one reason—to intercede—to put things back on track; however, mild, meek Claire didn’t return. Oh, she wasn’t suddenly loud and boisterous. She also wasn’t obedient and accommodating. What she was—made Catherine’s blood boil. Claire was a Nichols who had the audacity to think she was the lady of the house! She was a Nichols who was pregnant—with a Rawls baby!
In 1985, that had been Catherine. She had been the one expecting a Rawls baby and waiting patiently to become the lady of the house. After all, Sharron was gone. Well, she wasn’t dead; nevertheless, she was gone. Watching that woman die slowly had been excruciating. Catherine vowed to, never again, allow that to happen to anyone she loved.
Then, that same year, it was all taken away from her. Not all—she still had Nathaniel. He taught her how the world worked and showed her that she was loved. Those were gifts she’d never had from her own family. When Nathaniel presented her with the deed to her father’s car dealership, it was the greatest gift—the most anyone had ever done for her. He showed her that his love was limitless; he’d do anything to make her happy. Catherine felt the same way. There were no lengths she wouldn’t go to for Nathaniel—even today. Catherine would never allow a Nichols to live in Nathaniel’s home and produce a child. It didn’t matter that Nathaniel’s home was in New Jersey. The estate where she sat was a worthy facsimile. Catherine was truthful when she encouraged Anton’s construction of the estate and told him how proud Nathaniel would be—he wouldn’t have been disappointed.
As the tips of Catherine’s fingers ran across the top of the private files in the desk drawer, she contemplated the one thing she hadn’t done for Nathaniel. Now that she truly was where he wanted her to be, Catherine Marie owed it to him to do what he wanted. He’d wanted her to contact her daughter. He wanted Marie to raise the girl—but that ship had already sailed.
She eyed the scribed names. There were so many. How could she figure out which one was her daughter? Catherine saw her own name. Maybe there was a clue in her file. When she opened it, she feared her heart would stop pumping. The writing wasn’t Anton’s. Catherine knew his writing well enough to duplicate it, with ease. This writing was Nathaniel’s.
Scribbled in the margin of a contract was the name Sophia Rossi. Catherine went through the drawer again. The only Sophia was Sophia Burke. Suddenly, she no longer remembered her husband’s love—she remembered his vendetta. Burke? Burke? There was no way her daughter could be connected to Jonathon Burke.
Catherine removed the Sophia Burke file and opened the folder. Above the typed name, Sophia Rossi, was the scribbled name Sophia Rossi Burke...Catherine searched the pages. There was a plethora of outdated information; nonetheless, written above the text on the second page was a telephone number. Catherine couldn’t resist; she used the blocked house phone.
Derek answered his wife’s cell phone. The past few weeks had been too much, and Sophia wasn’t up for solicitors or blocked numbers. “Hello?”
Initially, there was silence. Derek was about to hang up when he heard a voice. “I’m sorry; I’m looking for the beautiful baby girl I was forced to give away thirty-three years ago.”
Derek listened. He remembered that after Sophia’s parents’ funeral, she said she didn’t want to know her birth parents, yet this moment in time may be their only chance to learn the truth. “I’m sorry; my wife is indisposed right now. She’s had a difficult few weeks.”
“Yes, that’s the reason I’m calling. I never wanted to interfere with her and her adoptive parents, but now—”
Derek interjected, “Tell me the date you gave birth.”
Sophia’s eyes widened as she heard her husband’s question.
“July 19, 1980.”
Derek turned to Sophia. Her beautiful gray eyes, which had finally stopped crying over her parents, were now moist once again.
“What did she say?” Sophia whispered.
With his hand over the phone, Derek nodded. “She said your birth date. I think it might be your mother.”
“My mother died in a car accident.” Sophia straightened her neck and took the phone. “Please, don’t call again. My parents are dead. I don’t know you.”
The woman on the other end of the line spoke, “I’m sorry, I won’t call you again.”
Derek watched his wife’s countenance melt. He knew it was the first time Sophia had heard her birth mother’s voice, and he couldn’t imagine the questions that were rapidly firing through her beautiful head. Why did she give her up? Has she ever regretted her decision? What kind of person was she? What did she look like? Did they look alike?
Sophia swallowed the tears threatening her speech and said, “Wait—if you could give me your number, I’ll think about it. Then—when I’m ready—I can call you.”
The woman exhaled and replied, “Yes, of course.”
Sophia’s strength was spent. It broke Derek’s heart to see her fighting this new upheaval of emotion. Wrapping her in his arms, he took the phone from her hand. His voice was neither
welcoming nor rejecting, “You may give me the number. When my wife is ready—if she’s ready—she will call you. Please, do not call her phone again.”
The woman hesitated only a second and then rattled off ten numbers. Derek repeated the numbers. Not offering a closing salutation, he disconnected the line. His concern wasn’t the woman on the phone; it was the distraught woman in his arms.
Catherine grinned. She’d done what Nathaniel had wanted her to do—she’d contacted her daughter. From the information in the file, Catherine could tell that Anton had been watching Sophia. She wondered what, if anything, he’d done for her. Catherine needed more information.
Anton had a list of private detectives and others who’d proven themselves helpful in the past. Briefly, Catherine thought of Roach, Phillip Roach. He’d done an excellent job with Catherine’s directives. Of course, it helped that he’d been unhappy about losing his job with Anton. Catherine wasn’t sure she’d be able to reach him. If she did, did Catherine want to know Claire’s location?
Oh, she had so many things to consider. Truthfully, Claire could wait—she wasn’t going anywhere. Right now, Catherine wanted to know more about Sophia. It was a pretty name—not one she would have chosen, but it was pretty. There were no pictures in the file, well other than a few of a very young girl. Catherine wondered what her daughter looked like. Did she look like her? or perhaps she looked like... Truthfully, that was why she didn’t want to do this in the first place.
Catherine Marie London was no longer that scared, lonely, and abused teenager at the mercy of her drugged out uncle. No—she was a strong fighter and a go-getter! She’d loved Nathaniel Rawls and outlasted Anton Rawls—both were impressive accomplishments.
Thanks to both, Catherine now had time and resources. She also had a plethora of questions. What did her daughter do for a living? Did she go to college? Were her adoptive parents good to her? Catherine told herself they were. If not, Nathaniel or Anton would’ve known, but what about Sophia’s husband? Could it be possible? Could Sophia really be married to someone associated with Jonathon Burke? And who did he think he was, talking to her the way he did, demanding her telephone number? Catherine sure as hell wasn’t intimidated. If a Rawls didn’t intimidate her—a Burke never could.