Текст книги "Convicted"

Автор книги: Aleatha Romig

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

“When Nathaniel was first incarcerated, he and Ms. London weren’t yet married. Samuel was the contact—his next of kin and power of attorney. Apparently, to change those titles to a new person required compliance by all individuals. Samuel Rawls refused to relinquish his power over his father.”

Tony stood and paced as the storm continued to threaten. Torrents of rain blanketed the windows. Seeing his reflection in the glass and unable to see beyond the prematurely dark sky, Tony said, “That’s ridiculous. My father never visited the prison. Not one time!”

Phil shook his head. “I saw that too. Ms. London visited every Friday like clockwork. Your visits coincided with long weekends and college breaks.”

“Damn!”—Tony looked at Phil with newfound admiration—“Is there anything you can’t learn?”

“Me personally”—Phil smirked—“not if I know where to look.”

“So, what did you learn in the correspondences?”

Phil explained, as Nathaniel’s dementia-like symptoms increased, the prison contacted Samuel. One of the doctors sited a concern regarding drug interaction. He stated that some reports, at that time, claimed a possible connection between anti-depressants and a vitamin deficiency which produced forgetfulness, restlessness, and agitation. The doctor requested Samuel’s permission to take Nathaniel off the anti-depressants.

“My father refused, didn’t he?”

“He did. He authorized vitamin supplements, but vehemently denied approval to change or alter Nathaniel’s anti-depressant regime.”

“When was this correspondence?” Tony asked.

“Do you want the date? Or are you more interested to learn if it was after your grandfather married Ms. London?”

“B.” Tony replied. B—the letter propelled his thoughts to Blaine—his son or daughter. Hearing about the vindictiveness of his father and the deep seeded hatred that flowed through his own family, Tony wondered why the universe was willing to entrust him with a child. The Rawls in him didn’t deserve such a monumental blessing. He never thought he deserved any blessings. Everything he’d ever acquired he’d earned, through hard work—except this child—perhaps, the Nichols down the hall, balanced out the Rawls. In a way, it was like Catherine’s threats:

Rawls—Nichols

Except, that wasn’t the correct equation—it wasn’t Rawls minus Nichols—it was Rawls plus Nichols. It was now clear—Rawls plus Nichols equaled Rawlings.

Before Phil could answer, the sound of Claire’s scream echoed through the house, only to be drowned out by the rumbling of thunder. At first, Tony considered he might have imagined his wife’s plea, but when he saw the look on Phil’s face, Tony knew it was real.

“Did you just hear?” Tony asked as Claire’s scream rang from the other side of the house. Both men ran for the master bedroom suite. They reached the door at the same time as Madeline. Tony’s heart beat frantically as he reached for the door knob, pushed the door wide, and declared, “I’m going in alone. Then, I’ll let you know.”

Madeline and Phil both nodded.

Claire lay still near the center of their bed with her back toward the door. The fullness of pillows surrounding her body brought a momentary smile to Tony’s worried expression. Lately, she’d brought more and more pillows to bed. He’d teased her, saying a wall of pillows couldn’t keep him out, but Tony knew the pillows helped Claire to be more comfortable. He didn’t care if she slept in a bed of pillows.

His smile quickly faded when he realized she hadn’t turned toward the sound of the opening door. Quickly, he walked to the far side of their bed and stepped closer. Despite her damp hair pressed to her face, Tony thought she looked beautiful. When he spoke, he expected to see her beautiful emerald eyes. “Claire, are you all right?”

She didn’t move. In the dimly lit, master bedroom suite, her skin glistened with perspiration and her eyes remained shut. He reached toward her. While only inches away, Claire’s head tossed violently from side to side as she whispered, “No...Tony...”

Just as quickly as she called out, her body stilled. He waited. Was she telling him not to come nearer? Tony asked in desperation, “Claire, no—what?”

When she didn’t respond, he sat on the edge of their bed and tenderly reached for her shoulder. Shaking her gently, he said, “Claire, I’m right here. Are you dreaming?”

She didn’t respond. He shook again—nothing. “Madeline!” he yelled toward the door.

The sky was now dark, with intense flashes of light. The thunder and lightning occurred almost simultaneously. Phil, who’d been joined by Francis, paced silently in the hallway, while Madeline and Tony attended to Claire. Despite his gentle encouragement, Claire wouldn’t wake; however, her pleas and the calling of his name ceased.

The temperature of their suite had decreased very nicely. That, combined with the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan, made their room quite comfortable; nevertheless, Tony noticed Claire’s blouse stuck to her clammy skin. As he brushed her sun lightened hair away from her face, he felt the warmth radiating from her body. “She’s burning up!”

“Monsieur, may I?”

Tony hesitantly stepped away as Madeline approached the edge of the bed where Tony had been perched. She turned her palm upward and moved her hand over Claire’s forehead.

“I’m afraid she has an infection. Before she fell asleep, I gave her something to help fight it and help her sleep. She said she didn’t want to go to the doctor.”

His back straightened. “What did you give her?”

“It’s an island remedy. When she wakes, she’ll feel better.”

“The baby?”

“The bébé will be good, much better than having infection in her mère.”

His shoulder’s relaxed as he stepped toward his wife. Before he could speak, Madeline pulled the sheet back and revealed Claire’s body.

Tony gasped. “What? What happened? Why is she so wet?”

“Her water, it broke. The baby is coming.”

Tony fell to his knees and reached for his wife’s hand. With his lips near Claire’s sleeping face he begged, “Please, please be all right.” Holding back tears, he straightened his neck and lowered his voice—the tone he created was one of authority, beyond debate. “You told me you’d be fine. You promised.” Lightning and thunder crashed. Softness, once again, took residence in his words, “Claire, please open your eyes. I need to see your beautiful emerald eyes.”

His chest tightened with déjà vu. He’d said those words before—almost verbatim. Seeing her on the bed, with her clothes glued to her skin by moisture, Tony cursed under his breath. This—like the accident—like Chester—was his fault. Why did she continually need to suffer because of him?

I always trust my gut reaction; it's always right .

—Kiana Tom

Harry took one last look at his acquired evidence from the Sherman Nichols’ case—all boxed and catalogued. The digital data was secured in the FBI system. Soon, it would be gone from his condominium—gone from his life. He hated to admit the case was done. Well, the case wasn’t done, but he was done with the case. After all the time, effort, and attachment, Harry had been ordered to move on. Last night, the call came from the deputy director—Agent Baldwin was needed elsewhere. The new assignment required traveling, and he was finally fit to travel. Despite the disappointment of losing the Nichols case, Harry was looking forward to getting away. Even though Christmas was around the corner, he needed a break from Palo Alto, his sister, and even Liz.

Amber’s decision to hire John Vandersol at SiJo added to Harry’s discomfort in Palo Alto. They had to create a story to explain his abrupt exit from SiJo. One day he was SiJo’s President of Security Operations—the next he was gone. Privately, on a personal level, Harry berated Amber for hiring John; however, on a professional level, Vandersol was talented—even gifted; nevertheless, Harry didn’t appreciate the added angst. It was increasingly difficult to deal with Rawlings and Claire while simultaneously faced with her only family. Harry wondered how Amber and Liz were able to handle the farce on a daily basis.

Since John’s law license was reinstated, it seemed as though he itched to make the move from corporate financial investments back to legal. The thing was—John Vandersol had a problem called loyalty. He obviously felt indebted to Amber and to SiJo for hiring him at such a difficult time in his career. Many corporations wouldn’t have taken a chance on him—despite the fact the charges resulting in his incarceration were later dropped, and his record was expunged. Harry assumed John would remain diligent to SiJo’s needs as long as his presence was requested. Amber said she had no intentions of asking him to follow his heart—his assistance with investments and procurements had already helped SiJo immensely. Amber may have initially hired him to solidify her faux friendship with Claire, but as a business decision, it was one of Amber’s best.

Sometimes Harry questioned Simon’s business sense in naming Amber as vice president of operations of SiJo. Simon’s confidence and recommendation undoubtedly secured her future with the board of directors upon Simon’s death. As much as Harry liked Simon, the man definitely thought more with his heart, or perhaps other parts of his body, than he did his head when it came to women. The fact he’d spent eight years waiting for Claire was another example of Simon’s emotional handicap. It sure-as-hell wasn’t a mistake that Harry planned on repeating.

As CEO, Amber McCoy often surprised and delighted her brother. She’d definitely learned from Simon’s intuition. Now, with John, the company was, once again, making waves throughout the gaming world. Granted, they were little ripples, but movement—nonetheless.

The knock on his condominium door brought Harry to present. He was expecting someone from the San Francisco field office. They were coming to pick up the boxes of research. When he opened the door, it wasn’t a fellow FBI agent, but Liz.

Harry scanned her work clothes. He liked the skirts that got all tight at the waist and stayed tight until her blouse, emphasizing her round breasts. Noticing her black high heels, Harry tried not to think about other times she’d worn those—and not much else. Unable to hide his sly smile, Harry said, “Hi, come on in.”

She took a few steps, scanned the stacked boxes and raised her eyebrows. “You’re really moving on to other cases.”

Harry gently clenched Liz’s shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her cheek. “Between you and Amber, I don’t know who has more difficulty remembering—I can’t talk about it.”

Liz grinned. “I know—or you’d have to kill me; but hey, this case almost cost us—us. So, to say I’m glad you’re moving on—is an understatement.”

Going into Harry’s kitchen, Liz opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. Harry was close behind when he asked, “Even if it means that I’m traveling?”

Liz shrugged. “I like it better when you’re here. How much of your schedule can I know?”

Leaning against the counter with his faded jeans, tight black t-shirt, bare feet, and messy, blonde hair, Harry grinned. “I can tell you when I’m home.”

“But, not when you’re coming home.”

He stepped toward her, put his arms around her waist, and pinned her against the counter. Inhaling deeply, he took in the sweet smell of her perfume. As he exhaled, his warm breath bathed her neck. Before he spoke, his lips caressed her shoulder and his fingers traced the edge of her scoop cut blouse. Liz tilted her head back, giving him full access and involuntarily moaned. His words were spaced and breathy. “No” “not when I’m coming home” “I promise” “when I’m home” “I’m all yours.”

Liz sighed, momentarily allowing her hips to be pulled toward his; however, when his hands lowered to her round behind, Liz pushed away. “Well, I think we need to talk. I mean, what’s this relationship anyway? What am I?”

Harry lifted a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Are we dating again, or just having sex?”

Running his fingers through his hair, Harry sighed. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I don’t want you stuck in some holding pattern. It could be a few days—or a few months. That’s not fair to you.”

Liz set the bottle on the counter with enough force to allow droplets of water to escape onto the granite top. “Fine,” she said as she turned toward the door.

Harry grabbed her arm and turned her back toward him, pulling her into his strong embrace. Looking down into her light blue eyes, he softened his tone. “What is this? I thought we’d been through this. You know it’s my job.”

Liz nodded into his chest. “I do. I just don’t know what that means.”

Harry lifted her chin. “Why are you suddenly upset?”

“It’s not suddenly, Harry. It’s still!”

Exhaling, Harry took Liz by the hand and led her to his sofa. “It was a job. I let it get out of hand. It’s over. She’s remarried. She’s having someone else’s kid!”

“You told me it was over with her after you found out about the kid not being yours.”

Harry’s voice became louder. “It was! We’ve—you and me—have been back together since then. What is this?”

Liz stood and paced about his living room pretending to have interest in all the things lying around. Finally, she answered, “I want to believe you—I do. I can do the whole secret-agent girlfriend thing. Christ, Harry! I was kidnapped and forced to watch some assholes beat the shit out of you!” She inhaled deeply and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “I kept my mouth shut the whole time that stupid slut was here.” She turned her eyes to Harry.

He knew she was waiting for a reaction. Luckily, years of training allowed him to remain stoic.

Liz continued, “I did! I smiled and played nice, even after Amber told me you two were sleeping together.”

Harry exhaled—damn his sister! He knew she’d been the one to inform Liz, but hearing it reminded him how Amber needed to learn to keep her mouth shut! Agent training summoned, Harry stood and walked to Liz. Lifting her chin, he kissed her lips once again—softly and slowly. “I’m sorry. The whole thing put you in a terrible place. Is this something we can ever get past, or will I hear about it every time you’re mad at me, for the rest of our lives?”

Her lips curved upward. “The rest of our lives?”

“Or, until you tell me to hit the road.”

Her blue eyes closed, and her lashes fluttered on her cheek. “You’ve never talked about the future, even when we were living together.”

Harry shrugged. “The whole kid thing”—he pulled her close—“sorry, but it made me realize I might want that.” He felt her breasts against his chest. The tighter he held her, the harder her nipples became under her blouse. “Then, when Jillian was threatened, I thought about her. She’s beautiful and happy. She doesn’t need me showing up in her life, but another kid...” His lips brushed hers. “Maybe, I’m growing up?”

With her hand in his, he again pulled her toward the sofa. Leaning over her, their lips met. Harry gently pulled her blouse from the confines of her skirt. Within seconds, his hands were under her blouse and bra, caressing the firm, round breast he’d moments earlier been imagining. When his thumb began to trace circles around her nipple, Liz’s head fell back and a moan escaped her lips.

“Harry...Harry...”

Later that evening, while they lingered in Harry’s bed, Harry watched Liz sleep. With his head on his elbow, he took in her beautiful features. Everything about her said California, from her blonde hair to her tan skin. She grew up in southern California and moved north after college. Working at SiJo wasn’t her lifelong dream; she’d shared her desires for her future. That was part of her allure—they had a past. He and Liz had lived together—had good times together—and made mistakes together. It was real, not created by the FBI. She even knew what he did for a living and still wanted to be with him. Damn, hearing her talk about being kidnapped pulled at Harry’s heart. As much as he wanted a future with her, he had every right to worry about her safety.

As it was, Ilona and Jillian had only recently been allowed home and still had surveillance. Ilona had been much more understanding than Harry ever expected. Now that Harry was off the Nichols/Rawlings case, the bureau believed the threat to his ex-wife and their child would soon be gone; however, in Harry’s mind that attack still didn’t make sense.

About a month ago, Harry made a visit to the Rawlings estate. He had to see Ms. London in person. He fully monitored every one of her reactions. The first came when Harry introduced himself as Harry Baldwin—Claire’s ex-boyfriend and friend of John and Emily Vandersol. London appeared genuinely surprised to learn Claire had dated anyone else while in California. She offered her condolences regarding Claire’s disappearance. She also promised to contact him or the Vandersols if she learned anything. To make the conversation more believable, Harry mentioned Emily and how upset she was about her sister, especially with her emotions running high, due to her recent pregnancy.

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.