Текст книги "Convicted"
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
That was so difficult. She tried to remember. In that room they took her to, they asked her to look at pictures. Sometimes those pictures would trigger something. When that happened, she tried with all her might to keep the emptiness out. Sometimes she’d cover her eyes or her ears.
There were other times where they asked her to do simple tasks like picking up things and putting them in the right places. They didn’t tell her what was right. She didn’t know if it was acceptable to ask, so she avoided their tasks until they insisted. Claire didn’t like to hear people tell her what to do, especially if they sounded upset. Finally, one day, she picked up the miscellaneous items and put them in the small little compartments. Instead of releasing her from the room, they came up with more things for her to do.
The constant that Claire began to anticipate was Meredith’s visits. It was only recently she realized who the woman was. After all, even with saying her name, the context was wrong. Why would Meredith Banks be feeding her? Then Claire realized—it wasn’t meant to make sense—it just was, and Meredith did what no one else would do—she talked about Tony.
Since his visits had lessened, when Claire tried to think of him, she felt waves of sadness. He was gone. He had to be gone. Why else wouldn’t he visit any longer? Meredith’s stories of happy times brought him back. The memories were difficult for her to recall on her own. Meredith’s recollections gave her sustenance that no food could. She’d replay the words over in her head and remember. She couldn’t feel his touch as she once had, but she could picture the scenes as Meredith spoke.
It recently became obvious that the stories flowed more freely outside. When they walked and were alone, Meredith’s stories took on a life of their own. As she went on about dinners or engagements, Claire pictured her dress and Tony’s tuxedo. When she talked about trips, Claire’s mind saw the snow of Tahoe or the crystal blue waters of Fiji.
There were some memories Claire didn’t want to remember. When Meredith mentioned the bad times or the bad Tony, she tried to stop the visions in her mind. She didn’t want to feel the fear resurrected by those stories.
She questioned the reality of everything, yet in life or fantasy, Claire had promised Tony she’d keep their private life private. That’s what made Meredith safe—she already knew their private life. Claire had disobeyed Tony a long time ago, she wasn’t telling Meredith anything—no, Meredith was telling Claire, so she reasoned, telling her to stop was acceptable. After all, Tony wouldn’t want Meredith telling someone else these stories. That was why Claire had to stop her.
She didn’t mean to make Meredith cry. Claire didn’t want her sad. She was the only person willing to help her remember. “Shhh...I’m sorry”—“Please don’t cry.”
Suddenly, Meredith laughed.
Claire was sure she was having another delusion—people didn’t cry then laugh. Maybe Claire wasn’t really on a walk with her old friend. Maybe she’d soon feel that too familiar sharp pain in her arm. Settling to the ground, Claire waited. The people would come and then she’d wake up somewhere else. Closing her eyes, she hoped when the sharpness came, Tony would be waiting...
“Claire, you need to stand. You’ll get cold out here on the ground.” Meredith’s voice had regained the composure it momentarily lost.
Claire looked up, then side to side. Where were the people?
“I know you heard me. You spoke to me. Don’t worry, you won’t be in trouble, but we need to get back.” Meredith put out her hand. “Please, let’s go back.”
Claire reached up—the sensation of her hand in Meredith’s was real. At least, Claire believed it was.
You must stick to your conviction, but be ready to abandon your assumptions.
—Denis Waitley
Harry stared at his notes and relived his recent conversation with Agent Jackson from the Boston field office. Jackson was very specific—Anthony Rawlings was cooperating with the FBI and would not be apprehended at this time. When Harry questioned the attempt on his own life and the threat to his family, Jackson reminded him that there was no proof of a connection to Rawlings.
He was right—there was no proven connection. Could Harry’s gut be telling him he wanted Rawlings guilty, instead that the man was guilty? Maybe the whole beat down in the back alley accomplished the exact opposite of its intention. Since it occurred, Harry was more focused and determined to close the case. He needed assurance that everyone he cared about was safe. Surprisingly, that list of people—people whom he cared about—really cared about—was more static than he’d previously realized. Harry had family who’d been there for him and friends he could count on. Those people deserved his attention.
Everything became clearer the other day when the deputy director allowed Harry to speak with Ilona. Although he wanted to be assured of her safety, he was prepared for her tirade. The call progressed much differently than he’d anticipated.
“Ilona, are you all right?”
“Harry?”
“Ilona, I’m so sorry. I never imagined there’d be a connection from me to you. I thought you were safe.”
“I know...Ron knows.”
Harry couldn’t believe Ilona’s resolve. If only she’d been that strong when they were married; then again, maybe strength came with the love and support of a devoted spouse, something she now had in Ron. “Is Jillian all right?” he asked.
“She is.” Ilona chuckled. “She thinks we’re on vacation.”
Harry smiled.
“Do whatever you need to do, Harry. I have no idea who you’re after or what this is about—but if there’s a connection to us—please take care of it.”
“The threat was meant as a warning for me to back off.”
Ilona’s voice rang through the field office’s telephone. “I think I know you better than that—at least, I hope I do. You nail this person, whoever it is who’s threatening us. I know you can!”
“Thanks, Ilona. I expected you to chew me out for getting you into this.”
“You’re a few days late. I would’ve, but I’ve had time to think. Someone feels very threatened. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t resort to this. I’m fine and Jillian will forget this vacation as soon as it’s over.”
When they hung up, the indecision that had been looming like clouds around Harry since he’d re-entered the case evaporated. Claire was where she wanted to be—her message said so. There was a time he’d let his personal feelings get in the way. Now, it was strictly business. Claire Nichols was an informant and the granddaughter of an agent who’d been murdered. If the Boston office was confident in her safety then Harry would concentrate his talents where they were better utilized—interrogation and research. Currently, with his ability to communicate with Rawlings severed, research was his mode of operation.
Harry looked over his recent findings. An inspection of the bureau of motor vehicles for the state of New Jersey found twenty-two thousand plus blue Hondas registered in 1989. The search could be considerably refined if Harry could enter a year or model for the Honda—he couldn’t; however, thanks to Claire’s phone call, he had a name: Catherine Marie London. When he ran her name, he hit the jackpot—1987 Honda Prelude registered to Catherine Marie London. Further scrutiny of the registration revealed the color: blue.
To further follow up on Claire’s information, Harry searched marriage records for New Jersey. His search came up blank. Thinking of the Rawlings’ somewhere in the South Pacific, he realized that people can go anywhere and get married. The FBI’s databases weren’t restricted by state or country. Utilizing the bureau’s database, Harry tried again. This time, he hit pay dirt—marriage license issued by the state of New York, February 25, 1988, to Nathaniel Rawls and Catherine Marie London.
Harry referred to his timeline—Nathaniel Rawls was convicted on charges of multiple counts of insider trading, misappropriation of funds, price fixing, and securities fraud in 1987 and sentenced to three years in Camp Gabriels, a minimum security prison in upstate New York. Nathaniel’s sentence was reduced to twenty-four months due to prison overcrowding. It made sense that he and Catherine Marie London were married in New York, at the prison where Nathaniel was incarcerated. Harry wondered why Catherine hadn’t kept the name Rawls. Was she hiding from Nathaniel’s crimes as Rawlings had done with his change of name?
The search he’d started on Nathaniel Rawls continued to generate information. The screen of his computer sustained a non-stop scroll listing a plethora of civil suits. Scanning the generalities, most cases named Nathaniel Rawls as defendant and asked for financial restitution. Perhaps that was Catherine’s reasoning, distance herself from the financial ramifications of Nathaniel’s crimes.
Out of curiosity, Harry scrolled the list of plaintiffs. The name Rawls caught his attention. He clicked: Samuel Rawls seeks to void marriage of Nathaniel and Catherine Marie Rawls. Harry’s head spun. The complaint was initially filed with the New York state court in March of 1988. Harry rubbed his temples. Damn—Samuel didn’t waste much time voicing his disapproval of Daddy Dearest’s new wife.
It appeared the complaint met substantial roadblocks until June of 1989—less than a month after Nathaniel’s death, when the case went from summons to disposition in record time. Based on mental incompetence and undue influence, Samuel Rawls’s complaint was granted, and the marriage of Nathaniel and Catherine Marie Rawls was voided by the state of New York.
Harry knew without checking that three months later Samuel and Amanda Rawls were found dead in their rented California bungalow. He also knew that Patrick Chester was the only witness to a commotion the same day at the Rawls’s home. In the initial interrogation, Chester mentioned a woman—Samuel’s sister and a blue Honda. No wonder Amanda Rawls wasn’t anxious to introduce Chester to her step-mother-in-law—her husband had just had the woman’s marriage voided. Wow, and Harry thought his family life was screwed up!
Harry shoved his chair backward and paced about the living room of his condominium. How in the hell did the police in Santa Monica not put these pieces together? The ballistics evidence alone should’ve sent up red flags—damn, flares! A rookie cop should’ve seen that it wasn’t a murder/suicide!
Harry’s questions continued—What did Rawlings do, besides payoff Chester, to cover it all up? Why? Why would he help the woman who killed his parents—unless he was involved in their murder? This may be circumstantial, but it created a connection and a reason why Catherine would want Amanda and Samuel dead. Was there a reason Rawlings would want them dead?
Picking up his phone, Harry called Agent Jackson. After a string of button pushes and requests, his call was finally answered.
“Agent Jackson, this is Agent Baldwin from San Francisco.”
“Baldwin?”
“I believe I have significant information in the Rawlings case.”
“Are you well enough to travel Agent?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“We’ll see you in Boston, tomorrow.”
Harry exhaled. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be there.”
His blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Traveling cross country was a hell-of-a-lot better than sitting in his damn condominium. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to all of this. Harry couldn’t shake the thought that somehow Rawlings was still involved; nevertheless, Catherine London was the reason Claire ran—the person who scared Claire into leaving the country, her family, friends, even at the risk of sullying Rawlings’ reputation and company in the process. Claire wouldn’t have done that if the threat wasn’t real. Now, Rawlings was cooperating with the bureau. How deep did this go? Did Rawlings have information on Sherman Nichols or Nathaniel’s murder? Harry wanted to know what Rawlings had told Agent Jackson.
He’d share his information—then Jackson could share his; quid pro quo.
Gathering his research, Harry made a mental list. He needed to call SAC Williams and let him know he was going to Boston, and since he’d been forbidden to travel, he needed to be sure to emphasize—this trip was at the request of Agent Jackson. While Harry waited for the computer to finish running a backup, he pulled out his phone and sent a text.
“FYI—LEAVING 1ST THING IN THE MORNING—BUSINESS.”
He entered Amber and Liz’s names and hit SEND.
One last computer search—Harry entered Catherine’s current full name—Catherine Marie London. Very little information surfaced, not even a reference to her one time husband or his last name. As he was about to exit the search, something caught his attention:
Executor of Anthony Rawlings estate, effective: September 18, 2013—fourteen days after the disappearance of...
The short article described the efficient and unaffected running of the Rawlings’ estate, due in essence to Ms. London’s ability to oversee day to day operations. It was a small counter article to one about the ramifications of Anthony Rawlings’ disappearance in relation to Rawlings Industries.
Hmmm...maybe Harry should visit Iowa City? Did he want to see Rawlings’ estate—the place Claire lived—was held captive—and returned to? He shrugged—the past was what it was. Closing this case was his number one priority. First, he’d see how things went in Boston; then, he’d consider Iowa—a definite possibility.
His phone vibrated. Looking to the screen, he saw he had two text messages. The first one was from Amber:
“NEW INFORMATION? WHAT? WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”
Harry shook his head and replied.
“LOVE YA SIS. I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I’M BACK.”
The second text message was from Liz:
“TOMORROW MORNING? DOES THAT MEAN YOU’RE STILL IN TOWN TONIGHT? COINCIDENCE, SO AM I!?”
He smiled—they’d been through a lot, but finally, Liz seemed to understand the whole work and personal life separation, and maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand what it meant to have that special someone in his life—someone who supported you, no matter what. Harry replied.
“YOUR PLACE? I’M SICK OF THESE FOUR WALLS!”
Phil was thankful Rawlings had projects for him to research. Sophia Burke continued to be uneventful. Honestly, Phil sensed his assignment would soon be over. Ms. London hadn’t shared her reasoning for his reconnaissance; nevertheless, with the information from Rawlings, it wasn’t difficult to put the pieces of the puzzle together.
Ms. London requested to know Sophia’s habits and schedules. Once she did, she purposely intertwined their lives. Suddenly, Ms. London’s routine included lunch at a deli near the University of Iowa, visits to art galleries in the Quad Cities, and frequenting art museums in Cedar Rapids. At each encounter, the women appeared more at ease.
Phil had no reason to believe Ms. London had revealed her true identity to Sophia. She hadn’t shared it with him either; nonetheless, his job was to help arrange their coincidental meetings.
Although the Rawlings had internet, the jumping through servers, private networks, and shell accounts slowed things down considerably. It was much easier for Phil to do the internet surfing for him. Phil’s current project was Nathaniel Rawls. He knew Rawls’ basic information from Claire’s research, and from Rawlings, he learned Nathaniel was married to Ms. London when he died in prison. Numerous news articles discussed Nathaniel’s demise from natural causes—a heart attack—only two months prior to his release. Rawlings wanted to learn more about Nathaniel’s medical records—especially while in prison. His inquiry was in relation to the civil case awarded to Samuel Rawls. The case claimed mental incompetence and undue influence and resulted in the successful voidance of Nathaniel’s marriage to Catherine London.
Rawlings admitted he never saw his grandfather as being mentally incompetent. He wanted to know if there was any evidence which aided the court in its decision. To Phil it seemed irrelevant—the man was dead—the marriage was voided. What good would it do now to learn if he were or weren’t off his rocker?
Then, Phil would walk into another gallery, see tin cans glued together with paint splashed over it, and remember—research! Infiltrating the records of a state penitentiary as well as the state and federal court systems was much more fun than deciphering art.
Phil sent his latest findings:
To: ARA
From: PR
Re: Research
Date: November 25, 2013
Nathaniel Rawls medical records are indicative of person with heart condition: history of high blood pressure, high cholesterol, depression, vitamin B12 deficiency, and nicotine addiction. Nathaniel took several high blood pressure medications, a cholesterol medication, and an anti-anxiety medication. According to the records, he smoked a half of a pack of cigarettes a day until he died. I’m not well-versed on medicines, but I can send the list if you want.
Records indicate that Samuel Rawls was listed as medical power of attorney. It doesn’t appear that this changed after Nathaniel and Catherine were married. That’s strange?
There were no specific instances of mental instability listed in the records that I’ve accessed thus far. I will continue to dig as well as access the court’s records for the justification of their verdict.
Surveillance—nothing new, Ms. Burke and Ms. London appear to be becoming friendlier. They have now started to meet for lunch once a week.
PR
Phil reread the email. He couldn’t help but smile at the ARA. It was his secret way of saying Anthony Rawlings Alexander. Having something—anything—private with Claire, made Phil smile. He wondered how she was doing, if she and the baby were well. He didn’t feel right asking, but if Ms. London ended this ridiculous assignment, Phil knew he was taking a long flight back to paradise.
Time passes by so quickly...change happens all around us every day whether we like it or not. Enjoy the moment while you can, one day it will just be another memory .
—Unknown
Days passed. The sun rose bright and yellow in the East and set like a ball of orange fire in the West. As their candidness grew, so did the strength of their bond. The world was present, they could see it or read about it, yet they were separate and safe. Tony’s offer to cooperate with the FBI in exchange for an one year reprieve received Agent Jackson’s approval, as well as whoever needed to sign-off from above. The bureau’s stipulations were clear—Tony must remain outside of the United States—stay in contact with the bureau—and not contact anyone from his past life. There were very few people who knew Anthony Rawlings was actually in a strange state of witness protection/fugitive status. To the world, he was simply—missing.
Agent Jackson promised Tony leniency regarding possible sentencing and preferential treatment regarding the court system as long as he fully cooperated; he agreed. Before Tony would allow the FBI to speak with Claire and receive her assistance, he secured their promise of full immunity. Tony didn’t want any possibility of his wife being charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive. They agreed. During the course of multiple short, untraceable calls, Claire disclosed all she knew first hand and through Tony. When the FBI requested her testimony against Catherine, if the case were to go to court, Claire replied, “There’s nothing that can keep me away from her trial. I want to see her face when she’s sentenced. When she’s in prison—like I was—I want her to remember that I helped put her there!”
They both exposed their cards and revealed all they could—except one. They still had an ace in the hole—they had Phil. His emails came daily, as well as pictures, and an occasional call. He was fully aware of Tony’s deal, Claire’s immunity, and that his communication and assistance was under the FBI’s radar. Their contact could be considered a breach of the FBI agreement.
The newly remarried Rawlings knew their time together was limited. In the grand scheme of life, a year was such a short time. Each day, each hour, they vowed to make better than the one before. Revelations came and discussions ensued. Claire no longer feared that Tony would leave each time he took the boat away from their island. She reasoned that his expeditions were like her walks in his woods during their past life. At that time, she needed time away from the estate; it soothed, healed, and strengthened her. Claire said once that she survived the early times on Tony’s estate because of Catherine. No longer did she feel that way; however, when she reminisced about her walks and her lake, Claire knew those times were invaluable. Tony went to town, explored other islands, snorkeled at nearby reefs, and always returned. He may not have recognized the importance of his excursions, but each time he returned with his eyes soft as suede and a spring in his step—Claire did.
She, on the other hand, had no desire to leave the island. Unless she had an appointment with the doctor, Claire preferred to stay near the house. Being in the southern hemisphere, the hottest time of year was approaching. If Claire didn’t keep her feet elevated, her ankles and feet swelled. The infinity pool allowed her to float and stay cool. Madeline doted on her constantly, encouraging her to eat small meals and get plenty of liquids. Home was Claire’s cocoon. She knew if they stayed there, they’d remain safe.
In her third trimester, sleeping at night had its problems, so often times, daytime activities morphed into napping. She’d be sunbathing or reading, and the next thing she knew, she was waking. The early day was her favorite time for sun before it became too intense. With her iPad at hand, she’d begin each day reading the news from the other side of the world. Sometimes it held her attention, and other times she’d lay the tablet face down and be lulled into a peaceful, dreamless state where her senses filled with the warm sun on her skin, lingering aroma of cologne mixed with her recently applied sunscreen, and the omnipresent roar of the surf.
Claire was in such a state, when without warning, large hands caressed her ankles and moved sensually toward her thighs. No longer was she on the edge of sleep. Her world was reignited as the tips of her lips turned upward and goose bumps materialized.
Opening her resting eyes, behind her sunglasses, and focusing on the handsome face before her, Claire saw her husband’s devilish grin. It was a smirk of lust and pleasure, one which—with only a glance—could melt not only her insides, but her world. His eyes, too, were covered by dark glasses, yet as his smiling lips neared hers and her smile willingly changed to a pucker, she longed for the unseen intensity waiting for her behind that dark glass.
Reaching up, Claire lifted the dark barrier. Tony’s eyes were the windows to his soul. She loved reading his emotions, especially when desire was part of the mix. In response, Tony, slowly and deliberately, removed her sunglasses and their eyes met. There was a moment when she thought to speak, but it was short-lived—so much more could be said without words.
Earlier that morning when Claire woke, Tony was gone. Madeline said he’d gone out on the boat. Now, after only hours apart, Claire realized their reunion would be more than a simple, Hi, how are you today?
It was true, her body had been thoroughly fulfilled and used the night before; nevertheless, it yearned for what was silently being offered. When his full, soft lips engaged hers, the passion of the night before returned with a vengeance. Only moments earlier, her lungs inhaled without instruction, yet as acquiescing moans escaped her lips, breathing required thought. Maybe it wasn’t thought, it was timing. Inhaling needed to occur in unison. If it didn’t, his unrelenting approach would rob her body of the oxygen necessary to go on. As her bathing suit covered breasts ached for the friction of his chest, Claire decided breathing was overrated. She wanted the heat that was overtaking her—to be consumed by the fire smoldering in the dark penetrating eyes. If in the process she forgot to breathe, did it really matter?
With the doors to their suite open to the crystal blue sea, their room was only slightly more private than the lanai; however, it was their room. Madeline and Francis respected their privacy. As Claire’s bathing suit fell to the floor, she realized they’d yet to speak, and still they’d conversed more than some couples did in a lifetime. They’d greeted one another, discussed the pleasantries of the tropical morning, and assessed that each was doing well.
Laying on the soft comforter with her arms above her head, the man she loved gazing down at only her, and the large ceiling fan methodically moving the humid air, Claire’s world was right. Had she planned on her morning taking this turn? No. Was she willing? Without a doubt.
The large talented hands claiming her body also had her soul. While his approach could at times be forceful—it was always gentle. Claire willingly surrendered, as she’d done a thousand times, to the whims and desires of the man above her. With no words, he could manipulate and dominate—move her from a state of sleeping bliss to the throes of erotic desire. Similar to years ago, his dark eyes held the passion and emotion which allowed her world to spin. Because he willed it so, the world was right.
Their past was significant, yet—insignificant. Years ago, Tony had told Claire not to talk about the past. He’d said they had a future and they needed to look ahead; nonetheless, at her prompting, the first month of their new marriage had been spent primarily in the past. She hadn’t asked to know the truth—she’d demanded it.
When Claire was young, her grandmother told her to be careful what she wished for. Without a doubt, Tony and her grandmother were correct. There were times she wished for ignorance, times she wanted not to know all he’d told her; however, she did know—and in knowing—she wanted to put it all behind them. Claire wanted to look ahead toward a future with the man making love to her, seducing her, and fulfilling her every desire. She knew from experience that life with him could be difficult—but without him—the entire planet would spin out of control, lost forever in the darkest depths of the universe.
Claire closed her eyes and concentrated on his talented fingers as they caressed her skin. Beginning at the nape of her neck, they trailed lightly down her body. Uncontrollably, Claire heard her own voice, truly nothing more than a ragged breath surrounded by a moan as her back arched, pushing her chest toward his touch—wanting—needing more.
He taunted her sensitive breasts, tweaking and suckling. Though she wanted the jubilation to last, it took so little to propel Claire to the edge of ecstasy. Sometimes something as simple as a deliberate puff of air on a taut, wet nipple instantaneously liquefied her insides and removed reasoning from her thoughts. Teasing her to the point of begging, yet satisfying her every desire was her husband’s specialty. Despite the way she’d changed—the way her body had changed—she felt wanted and sexy. He skillfully caressed and suckled as he moved south over her enlarged midsection—her baby—his baby—their baby. Its presence only intensified their union.
As their little one grew, creativity became a necessity. What was it they said? Necessity was the mother of invention. When they were both satisfied, Claire nestled her cheek against Tony’s chest, and he broke their silence. Instead of listening to his words, she enjoyed the reverberation of his raspy voice while mindlessly contemplating his next invention.
A few moments later, Tony tilted Claire’s face toward him, lifting her chin with one finger and repeated, “I believe I said, good morning, Mrs. Rawlings.”
“Mm mm,” she cooed. “It sure is, Mr. Rawlings.”
Tony scooted up to the headboard with his arm around Claire’s bare shoulder. His voice brimmed with excitement. “I found a nearby island. It isn’t large, and it’s uninhabited. I’ve been there a few times. Before I found you at the pool, I asked Madeline to pack us a lunch so that I could take you there.”
Claire’s satisfied smile faded, and her body stiffened. “I don’t know.”
“You need to get off this island for more than doctor’s appointments.”
“Why?” she asked. “I can order anything I want. Francis will pick it up and bring it here.” She placed her nose near his neck and inhaled. “I got your cologne.” Claire smiled as her lips touched the spot below his ear, and his famous growl filled her ears. “It’s not like we can go visit friends. There’s no reason to leave.”
Stopping her kisses, he said, “I have one.”
“Oh, you do? And what would that be?”
“I said so,” he answered smugly.
Claire eased herself from bed and shook her head from side to side. “Sorry, sweetheart, that one doesn’t work anymore.” With the sheet wrapped around her curvaceous body, she stepped toward the bathroom and asked, “Would you like to join me for a cool shower?”
Perhaps it was because she had the sheet or maybe because it wasn’t that great of a distance, but as he swiftly got out of their bed and gracefully moved toward her; Claire couldn’t look away from his gorgeous body. Totally nude, he reached her in only a few steps. When Claire remembered to focus on his face, she found an expression she didn’t expect.
Before it could register, he gripped her shoulders and stared down into her eyes. In his voice, Claire heard the determination and saw the darkness that she felt in his grasp. “I realize our options are limited; however, I won’t allow you to be isolated or imprisoned—again—by anyone. For the record, that includes you.”
“Tony, that’s ridiculous. I’m not imprisoning myself. I’m comfortable and happy. There’s a difference.”
He exhaled, lifted her chin, and spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’d love to join you for that shower. I’d love to help you reapply your sunscreen, and”—his words were controlled, not loud or harsh—or open for debate—“I know you wouldn’t want to disappoint Madeline...or me; therefore, after the shower, you and I are going to the small island that I found, and we’re having lunch.”
