Текст книги "Truth "
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 42 страниц)
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. Nevertheless, 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.
Claire decided to start at the beginning: Nathaniel Rawls, born 1919. Served in U.S. Army, WWII deployment, returned to USA 1943. Married Sharron Parkinson Rawls 1943. Began working for BNG Textiles in 1943. 1944 Samuel Anton Rawls born. 1953 BNG Textiles became Rawls Textiles. The company expanded. 1975 Rawls went public, traded on the NYSE. At this point records are easier to obtain. The biggest problem was lack of technology in 1975.
Today a wealth of information was available on every publicly traded company: assets, liabilities, ownership equity, profit and loss sheets, management analysis and much more. The same information was presumably available in 1975 but not at a click of a button. Claire debated traveling to New Jersey to access microfiche files. The woman on the telephone told her they should have it. However, the state of New Jersey does not have the inclination, time, or manpower to track the old information. She invited Claire to come and investigate the bowels of their storage. Although a lovely invitation, Claire hadn’t decided if it were necessary.
January 1986 rumors involving Rawls Corp resulted in a drastic drop in stock price. Investors wanted their money returned. 1987 Nathaniel Rawls was convicted and incarcerated at Camp Gabriels, a minimum security state prison, located in northern New York. He was sentenced to thirty-six months, one of the heaviest penalties dispersed for a white collar crime. 1989, twenty-two months after conviction, Nathaniel Rawls died of a heart attack.
Harry found a list of civil cases involving Nathaniel during his incarceration. He said it wasn’t uncommon for prisoners to be sued. Many wronged investors want blood from a turnip, so to speak. Claire hadn’t read the various cases. Harry admitted he’d only scanned them, but believed many stemmed from rumors Mr. Rawls hid money prior to his incarceration. Although he may have had the opportunity while remaining outside of prison, on bond awaiting trial, the allegations were unproven. Judging by the lengthy list of plaintiffs, there were many bidders for a piece of his hidden bounty.
Claire read a blurb suggesting his money was hidden outside of the United States. However, those closest to Mr. Rawls, vehemently denied this, stating Nathaniel was known for his American bravado. They speculated he’d never trusted foreigners with his money.
After hours of reading, and not finding anything she hadn’t read before, Claire decided to move on to Samuel. Reaching for his stack of information, she noticed the faint sunlight leaking from around the blinds. Refocusing on the clock at the corner of her laptop, she saw it was almost seven thirty.
Claire decided to table – or bed – the Samuel reread and opt for a shower. She wasn’t sure, after the way she left Harry last night, but he usually came over for coffee about eight. She moved stiffly from the soft chair and lifted her empty coffee cup. If she were to survive her incredibly long day, Claire needed more caffeine.
Feeling almost human after another cup of coffee and shower, Claire decided to dress causal, wearing yoga pants, a camisole, and an oversized t-shirt. Not wanting to be busy with the hairdryer when Harry arrived, she combed her wet hair back into a low ponytail and managed a little mascara, lip gloss, blush, and perfume. Claire wasn’t the stunning model from last night, and although she wanted to tell him she was sorry, if he walked in and saw her dressed to the nines for coffee, he’d rightfully be suspicious. She wasn’t sure of her daily plans. However, as her bare feet padded along the wood floor of the cavernous condo, she smiled at the sunshine streaming through the unblocked windows.
Some research, coffee, warm shower, and fog-free blue skies did wonders to put her life in perspective. Claire’s dinner with Tony momentarily sent things off-kilter, but all was neutralizing again. She needed to focus on her mission involving Tony. And that mission wasn’t sex! It was retaliation. He may not have sent that box, but her research continued to validate its contents.
As Claire set her laptop on the kitchen table she typed in Newsweek. Like so many other publications, Newsweek required a subscription in order to access previous editions. That was fine, she thought, Phillip Roach can have fun figuring out why I’m suddenly so interested in news magazines.
Starting the coffee maker for another high octane injection, she typed 1975, the year Rawls went public. She remembered a magazine article with a picture of Nathaniel and his family in front of a house like Tony’s. She wanted to find that picture, to verify – if only to herself – that Tony was indeed Anton Rawls. If it wasn’t in Newsweek, she assumed it must be Time. She had an online subscription to that publication, too.
Two hours later she found the picture with the house, Nathaniel, Sharron, Samuel, Amanda, and Anton. Claire couldn’t wait to show Harry. She’d tell him about Tony’s denial, and then show him the picture to validate her suspicions.
Then Claire realized – two hours. It was almost ten. Surely, Harry’s at SiJo by now. He hadn’t come over for coffee. Claire staggered at the sudden disappointment flowing through her. She hadn’t realized how much she enjoyed their morning chats, until now, when he didn’t show.
There was no question; it was her fault. She’d been rude last night. Would she have ever treated Tony that way? The answer was no, not because she didn’t want to, but because he’d never have allowed it. Had she really spent half the night fantasizing about someone who dominated her entire life, including emotions and reactions, when there was a kind understanding man in real life?
Claire went to the bedroom to find her phone. She wanted to send Harry a text, tell him she missed him this morning. Hopefully he’d respond, and maybe she could meet him for lunch.
The screen indicated four missed calls. Picking up her Emily phone she had texts, one each from Emily and Courtney. They both wanted to be sure she was all right, after her dinner.
Darn, she’d meant to call them last night. The whole evening just messed her up. She sent a text telling them she was fine and would talk to them, when they had time. Walking toward the kitchen, she added, I HAVE SOME NEW RELEVANT INFO TO SHARE!
Honestly, she hadn’t checked her Tony phone. That could wait. She needed more time in the sunshine, without his voice and the darkness that swallowed her into its abyss. Smiling, she checked the iPhone. Two calls were from Amber; oh yeah, she’d forgotten to check in with her, too. One call was from Harry, no message. At least he called. She didn’t recognize the other number, no message.
When almost to the kitchen she heard a knock at the door. Wow, Harry must be upset, if he is knocking. Claire didn’t care, as long as he was there. Smiling her biggest grin, she opened the door with a light hearted, “Did you forget your key?”
Her heart stopped beating, and the air dissipated from her lungs. She wasn’t staring into Harry’s soft blue eyes, wavy blonde hair, or his SiJo fitted black shirt. No, it wasn’t his chest with the nicely stretched Under Armor across his wide pecs in front of her. This one was covered by an Armani tailored suit. Claire’s smile shattered, as dark eyes once again sent her world into a spiral. The axis which had taken her most of the night to correct was once again wobbling uncontrollably.
Straightening her neck, she suddenly wished for shoes, preferably heels. It was a stupid wish. If a Genie had just given her three, it would be a waste. However, as he loomed, at least six and a half feet high in her doorway and she stood barefooted, she felt incredibly small. Claire didn’t like the sense of vulnerability rushing through her nervous system, sending off flares of panic at every synapse.
His voice registered deep, “I don’t have a key, but I’d be glad to get one. Just tell me where to sign-up.” After so much time of evaluating his looks, eyes, movements, and voice, she immediately assessed: he sounds restrained, yet amused.
She wanted to say, “Go to hell, and let me know when it turns cold – because, that’s when you can expect to receive a key!” However instead, she squared her shoulders and tried to display a small amount of decorum, “How did you get up here. You can’t be on this floor without a key.”
He was still standing in the hallway. Claire held the edge of the door, ready to slam it, if necessary. “Perhaps you could invite me in, and we can discuss it?”
“Tony, why are you here?”
He smirked, “If we’re playing one hundred questions, I admit defeat. May I come in?”
Momentarily, Claire stared. Her stomach twisted with the realization, he’d asked the same question twice. It was another of his old pet-peeves. As much as she didn’t want to allow him entry, she didn’t want risk him asking her a third time. She stood back and nodded. He walked in and surveyed his surroundings with an air of approval.
“My, Claire, you are living much better than I expected. When I first learned of your release, I pictured you destitute.”
“I’m sure you enjoyed that scenario. I’m sorry to disappoint.”
He snickered, “Disappoint? On the contrary, your ingenuity is to be praised.”
Still standing on the marbled floored entry, Claire asked her question, again. “Tony, I will repeat myself, at the risk of being redundant.” She could sense the increased intensity in his stare. “Why are you here and how did you access my floor.”
“I gained access by the security guard on the first floor. He tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.” Claire thought about that unknown number. She needed to program Security into her phone. “I explained, we are old friends, I’m leaving town, and since I had recently talked with you, I knew you were home and expecting me.”
As he spoke her iPhone rang. It was the unknown number again. “This is security. I’ll tell them I don’t want you here, unless you quickly tell me why you’re here.” The phone rang again.
Rarely, if ever, did Anthony Rawlings receive an ultimatum. Now faced with one, he didn’t anger or hesitate, he answered, “I want to know more about your prison delivery.”
She eyed him, more assessment: honesty. Apparently the conversation wasn’t closed the night before, only tabled until today. After the fourth ring, she brushed the screen and answered. “Hello.” “Yes, this is Ms. Nichols.” “Yes, he did.” “Thank you.” “Yes. I will. Good-bye.” Tony watched intently as she spoke. She had the sensation of a bird, being evaluated by a cat. Should she fly away, had she just thrown away her only chance of ejecting him from her home, or would she be consumed by a power greater than she could manage?
After her conversation with security ended, she turned back to her guest, “I have plans today. Please make this quick.”
His eyes scanned up and down her petite form. “Yes, I see you are dressed for business. What do they call that, business casual?” The vulnerability of her light weight pants and top made her uneasy. Refusing to take his snide bait, Claire remained silent. His tone turned sultry, “I’m not complaining. I always found the casual Claire as sexy as the one who rocked designer dresses.”
