Текст книги "Convicted"

Автор книги: Aleatha Romig

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Listen to your intuition. It will tell you everything you need to know.

—Anthony J. D'Angelo

The familiar ring beckoned Sophia to the kitchen of their Provincetown home. She recognized the melody, telling her of her husband’s waiting call. Hurriedly, clicking the ANSWER button, Sophia allowed her smile to radiate through the screen. They hadn’t spoken in almost a week and her excitement at the handsome profile picture was hard to contain. Waiting for their conversation to connect, Sophia stared at his smiling face knowing that soon she’d see him, as if he were right there with her.

“Hi, honey,” she answered as the video feed fought to catch up to the audio. Her thoughts and concerns from earlier in the day disappeared as her husband’s soft brown eyes transcended miles, continents, and oceans.

“Hey, beautiful.” After almost a week apart, merely the sound of his voice made Sophia melt into her chair. “Tell me you’ve heard the news.”

Sophia’s mind searched for recent information. She’d been so busy with her parents’ affairs, art studio, old friends, and preparations to return to the West Coast, she hadn’t looked at a newspaper or even her homepage in a couple of days. That was part of the charm of living on the Cape—it was a world of its own. Grinning at her husband’s image, Sophia answered, “Oh, you know me—always up on the latest headlines!”

Derek grinned and shook his head.

Sophia continued, “I don’t think I have. Whatever it is, it must be pretty big if it got to you in Beijing.”

“Yeah, I’d say it’s big. It’s big enough that I’m heading back to Santa Clara tomorrow.”

“I’m getting there tomorrow too! I already have my flight booked.” Excitement about their reunion dimmed as Sophia pondered the possibilities of Derek’s agenda change. “I’m thrilled, but why? You aren’t scheduled to come home for another week. What happened? Does it have something to do with travel—has there been a safety alert, are you all right?”

“No, travel is fine. I’m fine, but Anthony Rawlings is missing!”

Sophia stared incredulously at the screen, trying desperately to put her husband’s words into a frame of time and space. She hadn’t spoken to Derek since her strange encounter in her studio with Mr. Rawlings. Wrangling her thoughts into a manageable quorum, she asked, “When? What do you mean he’s missing?”

Derek shrugged. “I’m not sure of all the details. A mandatory webinar just concluded. Roger gave everyone from Shedis-tics the basic information. I don’t think he wanted any of us to learn it from the news or internet. I haven’t had a chance to look, but Roger said it’ll be everywhere soon. The entire Rawlings Industries Empire is in defense mode. You know—circle the wagons—stand tall—and get ready for whatever happens.”

Sophia shifted in her chair. “Honey, remember we were supposed to talk last Saturday?”

Derek’s attention was suddenly diverted to something at the side of his screen. “Ah, sorry, babe, I couldn’t get to Skype. Things were crazy. You know, being back in the states for your parents’...” His voice trailed off as he looked back to the camera, concern filled the blue eyes peering only at Sophia. “I’m sorry. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t want to be anywhere else, but with you”—the lines in his forehead disappeared as tiny creases formed around his eyes and a loving grin emerged—“That’s where I want to be now, too.”

Sophia smiled and shook her head; strands of long, blonde hair moved gently across her face. “I know that. Don’t worry, but Derek, I need to tell you something that happened on Saturday. First, tell me, when did Mr. Rawlings disappear? And what do you mean disappeared?” With each word, her volume increased, exposing her growing concern.

“I think it was last weekend, sometime—something to do with the FBI and the disappearance of his ex-wife.” The sound of an incoming call echoed behind Derek’s voice. “I really need to go. I’ll see you at home tomorrow. Things are insane! I love you!”

“Derek!”—she yelled toward the small monitor—“Derek!” Making her words move fast, Sophia added, “He was here last Saturday! He was in my art studio!”

Her speed of speech was inconsequential. Her husband’s image was gone—their connection severed. Sophia stared at the screen for a minute. In place of her husband’s moving, talking image, she once again saw his profile picture and name. It went without saying; things must be wild at Shedis-tics and all the other Rawlings’ subsidiaries. No matter, Sophia wanted to know when Mr. Rawlings went missing, and when did his ex-wife go missing? She did remember Mr. Rawlings saying he was off his game. It was all so strange.

Sophia had thought it was odd having him at the studio, asking her to dinner, offering to buy a painting, and then not showing to dinner. She remembered waiting at the restaurant for an hour before she left. Of course, she was perturbed and wondered why he’d invite her, just to stand her up. Then, as she sat alone at the table, Sophia recalled Mrs. Cunningham’s remark during the gala, last spring. She said Mr. Rawlings was well-known for his inclination for punctuality.

This new information added to the peculiarity of his visit.

Trying to make sense of everything, Sophia walked back to the bedroom to finish packing. Going home to California held much more promise now that Derek would be there too.

Claire looked up to see Harry’s customary blonde hair blowing in the brisk wind off the lagoon, while his blue eyes stared steadfast in her direction. The black veil covering her world ripped open, exposing her sudden vulnerability. Shaken by this new paradigm, she was unable to speak. Everything was out of context. She had a wig which made her hair black, and contacts that made her eyes a dark brown. She wasn’t Claire Nichols, yet she was. Phil was the only familiar person who belonged in her new parallel universe. He was the only one she could trust. How many times had they both discussed that? How many times had they practiced what should happen if their bubble was indeed penetrated?

Words didn’t form as she continued to gape. Her instinct told her to turn, run, and pretend she didn’t know the man now close enough to touch. She could respond in Italian and act offended by his proximity. If she did, would Harry understand? He’d never mentioned his ability to speak other languages—nor had she. While her internal debate raged, Claire stood and faced the man she hadn’t seen since the hospital in Palo Alto—the man who saved her and her baby’s life—the man who, for a brief moment in time, thought he was the father of her child. Claire’s hand fought the urge to flutter above her growing midsection.

Oh, she knew Phil would tell her to turn away. They were supposed to leave soon. If only she’d made her decision about their hidden location. If only she hadn’t gone out alone. If only her life wasn’t such a mess—alas, she hadn’t—she did—and it was.

As Harry’s gaze intensified and his hand reached toward her arm, better judgment prevailed and in near perfect Italian, Claire responded, “Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else.” Immediately, hurt registered on Harry’s face. It wasn’t confusion brought on by a language barrier—no, she saw anguish caused by her deception.

He gripped her arm. With emotion filled Italian rolling off his tongue, he asked, “Why Claire? Why are you hiding? You have so many people worried. Why, after everything would you lie to me?”

Claire nervously glanced from side to side. The people in St. Mark’s Square came into focus. Not one of them looked in their direction or cared what was happening. She didn’t know if this was what she wanted to see. Did she want to find Phil lurking nearby? Did she want him to save her and stop her from revealing any of her secrets? Or, was she confirming his absence—verifying her momentary freedom and ability to be honest with an old friend?

Looking down, away from his icy blue gaze, Claire whispered, “It isn’t safe. I can’t talk to you.” There was no reason to speak in Italian.

When she looked back up, Harry wasn’t looking down at her; he was scanning the terrain, perhaps assessing her concern for danger. In the next few transpiring seconds, his grasp of her arm controlled her movement and her, at first, unwilling feet. With quick uninterrupted steps he directed Claire away from the open square, through a large stone archway, down a narrow path, and into a quiet dark tavern. By the time they entered, Claire was no longer resisting. Appearances were too engrained in her behavior. She couldn’t make a scene even if she wanted. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d kidnap her—Harry wouldn’t do that. He was just an old friend, concerned about her safety. That’s what she told herself as they passed the small group of customers near the bar. No one seemed interested as they pressed into a booth. Claire sat first while Harry eased in next to her. After so many months apart and the circumstances of their break-up, Claire found his approach and proximity unnerving. The warmth of the tavern combined with the touch of his knee against hers, felt suffocating. The man beside her held an air of control she’d never witnessed in him before. Though she hadn’t experienced it with Harry, Claire recognized the suffocating sensation. Her face flushed with a consciousness of captivity, as Phil’s words: no one can be trusted, dominated her thoughts.

Keeping her well-used mask intact, Claire harshly whispered, “What’s going on? What do you think you’re doing?”

Before her eyes, the look of determination, which had overshadowed Harry’s expression, melted away. She watched as the kind, hurt man from Palo Alto emerged. It was as if he were two completely different people. The familiar one looked down at the table and gently shook his head. His voice brimmed with emotion, as he asked, “Do you have any idea how worried your sister is? How worried we all have been?”

Claire wanted to trust him, she did. There was just something wrong with the whole scenario. “How did you find me? Why are you looking?”

The pain in his eyes, the same eyes that had said goodbye to her at the hospital, mellowed Claire’s concerns. At the same time, they increased her sense of unease. After all, months ago, she’d been the cause of that pain. Seeing it right in front of her brought back her sense of guilt at the way things had transpired.

“Emily.”

More guilt flooded Claire’s overflowing emotions. “What about Emily?”

“She asked me to use my resources and try to find you.”

Claire looked down at the table as she weighed her words. With hormones raging and emotions swirling, the internal cyclone was difficult to maneuver.

Harry’s hand reached for hers. When his warm fingers contacted her skin, the cyclone stilled. She wasn’t seeing Emily or John; she wasn’t worried about Phil’s reaction to this encounter. Immediately, Claire retracted her hand as Tony dominated her thoughts. No matter what she’d done to him in the past, despite the fact she’d left him without a word, her heart was his. Yes, she’d been debating her memories, worried about their future, but none of that mattered. She told Marcus Evergreen Tony was in danger. She hadn’t told him the cause, but she would—when the time was right. She’d asked Marcus to secure his safety. Once she was sure that Tony was no longer in danger, her accusations could be told. First, she needed to see Tony—her ex-husband—her fiancé—perhaps her ex-fiancé.

“I’m sorry, Harry. We’re friends, I hope”—looking down at their hands– “but not that close of friends—anymore.”

“I assumed since you left him—”

“You assumed wrong”—Claire inhaled and softened her tone—“I know it looks that way. I left Iowa for my safety and the safety of”—she almost said our, thinking of Tony, but changed it to my, since she didn’t want to rehash old injuries—“my child. I didn’t leave Tony. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but it will someday.”

The man with determination in his eyes returned. “Safety? If it wasn’t Mr. Rawlings you feared, then who?”

“Please don’t say anything to Emily. I’m not trying to hurt her; I’m trying to protect her. There’s a danger that can hopefully be stopped.” Looking directly into Harry’s eyes, she added, “And it isn’t Tony.”

“Claire, none of it makes sense. Does this have anything to do with Chester? Was he working with someone? Does Rawlings know where you are?” Sitting straighter, he asked, “Is he with you, here in Venice?”

Without thinking, Claire answered, “Of course not, he’s still in Iowa.”

“No, no he’s not. Haven’t you heard?”

Claire’s heartbeat quickened; her arm protectively covering her midsection, Claire asked, “Heard what?”

“A few days ago, a plane Rawlings chartered made an emergency landing in the Appalachian Mountains.”

Claire’s mind went to Simon; his plane crashed in the mountains. Tears materialized as terror filled her chest. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Harry continued, “They didn’t find anyone. The officials aren’t claiming anyone died. They also aren’t saying anyone survived. At first, I thought about Simon.” He reached for Claire’s hand. This time, their common bond united them, and the warmth of his skin fused their brief past. She didn’t pull her hand away. “But then...” he continued. “I thought maybe it was a ruse for him to disappear and get to you. Emily was so frightened. At first, she assumed he was responsible for your disappearance, then she thought if you did leave, on your own, and not tell anyone, it was because you were scared”—He squeezed her hand—“I believe she’s right about that. Of course, she assumed it was Rawlings you were frightened of; then when he disappeared, she was overwrought with worry. She was sure that he’d track you down. She asked me to do it first.”

Claire felt the heat of his hand and heard the concern in his voice; however, something didn’t feel right. She didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was that the whole picture didn’t fit together. It was like trying to squeeze the wrong puzzle piece into the opening. The shapes were similar, but when you stood back and looked, the picture was wrong. Sitting with her hand in Harry’s wasn’t the right picture. She eased her fingers away.

“It’s amazing that you were able to track me down. I mean, I’ve tried very hard to stay hidden.”

Harry grinned and nodded. “I didn’t say it was easy.”

“Yes, but according to that scenario, you were able to accomplish it, in what, in just a few days? SiJo must have resources I never knew.”

The casual poise faded. “Well, I called some of my old law enforcement buddies.”

Smiling, Claire’s expression softened. “I guess it’s good you did. Otherwise, I’d never have had the chance to tell you how sorry I am about how everything ended.”

Shrugging, he started to answer when a dark-haired waitress came to their table. In Italian, she apologized for the delay and asked if they’d like drinks. Replying appropriately, also in Italian, Claire asked for warm tea while Harry ordered a beer. Before the waitress left, Claire spoke to Harry, still in Italian, “If you’d please excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”

She saw the indecision sweep across his face. If he didn’t allow her to get up, it would look suspicious to the waitress. If he did, could he trust her? Claire spoke first to the server, “You know how it is when you’re pregnant. I know every restroom in Venice!” The young woman smiled as Claire turned to Harry and said, “When I get back, I want to hear what you were about to say.”

His expression eased as he stepped from the booth. The waitress pointed toward the hall near the rear of the tavern. Claire’s eyes scanned from side to side as her feet eased down the back hall. Seeing the exit, she glanced back toward Harry smiling down at the screen of his phone, and she prayed the door wasn’t locked. One last glance over her shoulder to see him still looking down, and Claire was again out in the cool autumn air. Reaching for her phone, she dialed. Keeping her face hidden from the wind, she hurried toward Hotel Danieli and listened for a response.

Phil answered on the first ring, “Are you all right?”

“I don’t think so. Something’s weird. Where are you?”

To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.

―George MacDonald

Each step down the west corridor seemed like a hundred. The call requesting his presence in Mr. Rawlings’ office was more than strange. First, the news hit the wires over twenty-four hours ago; Mr. Rawlings’ plane made an emergency landing. Eric wondered with each step who wanted to see him and what they wanted. If it were the police, he’d been advised to play dumb. After all, he’d used alternative identification to fly back East. That same identification was used to rent the vehicle he drove across the Canadian border. Yes, Mr. Rawlings also had alternative identification which no one else knew anything about. They’d had them for years and had used them on occasion. Through the years, Eric never asked questions. Yes, he was paid exceptionally well for his service and discretion; nevertheless, he knew too much, they’d been through too much together.

From the time they were both young, back when Mr. Rawlings was a budding entrepreneur—Mr. Rawlings asked—and Eric did. Maybe he didn’t ask. Was it really a request, if denying wasn’t an option? No matter—neither party ever questioned. It was the perfect working relationship.

Truly, Eric had planned on sleeping for the next few days. Meeting Mr. Rawlings, driving to Canada, seeing him make his way down the concourse on his way to Europe, and driving back to the United States, only to fly back to Iowa all within a forty-eight hour period wiped him out. No one at the estate should’ve monitored his activity, but if they did, Eric had a story for his recent absence.

During his long trip back to Iowa, Eric contemplated the activities he’d done, over the years, to help Mr. Rawlings. There’d been more than a few happenings which encroached upon the limits of the law. Abducting Ms. Nichols was, without a doubt, the most damning; however, Mr. Rawlings said he saw her statement to the police and there was no recollection of her travel to Iowa. Eric’s assistance was only known by his employer.

Since he hadn’t officially been informed of Mr. Rawlings’ disappearance, Eric planned to enter the office as he would on any given day. Unless he was told others were present, Eric usually opened the door without hesitation. He assumed Mr. Rawlings allowed this because there wasn’t much that Eric didn’t know. Years of overheard conversations and encounters gave Eric a database of information. Rarely had he opened any door to find something of surprise. On those numbered occasions, when the scene caught him off guard, staying true to form, Eric neither reacted nor later mentioned the incident. In Eric’s line of work, secrecy was a valued and essential commodity.

Standing before the grand double doors, he remembered the last time he’d been in the office. It was to retrieve the small key from the top right drawer. That, some cash from the safe, and the alternative identifications, including the Anton Rawls identification were Mr. Rawlings’ only requests. Eric never said no; therefore, when the call came in the middle of the night from a non-traceable phone, those requests—just like all before them—were carried out exactly as instructed. The last thing Mr. Rawlings told Eric, before he walked through security was to go back home and act like nothing happened. He instructed Eric to act like the last time they were together was in Provincetown. Eric didn’t question; instead he said, “Yes, sir. Stay safe.” Mr. Rawlings nodded in return. It was as close as they would get to an emotional good bye.

Opening the door and stepping inside the regal office, Eric caught the hard gray stare as Catherine rose from the leather chair and said, “In the future, I’d appreciate you knocking before you enter this office, just as you would for Mr. Rawlings.”

Although he had years of practice at maintaining a stoic expression, the scene before him incited a combination of shock and rage. His mind swirled with possibilities for Catherine to be behind Mr. Rawlings’ desk. None of them made sense.

Reigning in the emotion which threatened his impenetrable veneer, Eric stood before the grand desk and asked, “Catherine, where is Mr. Rawlings?”

“First, I’d like to know where you’ve been. I needed you two days ago and you were gone.”

“I talked to Mr. Rawlings about my aunt a week ago. He gave me a few days to visit her.”

Catherine sat again and nodded. “I see, an aunt. Have you mentioned her before?”

“I’ve mentioned her many times. I don’t recall you being present during those conversations. Where is Mr. Rawlings? Mr. Simmons said they’d be back.”

Catherine leaned back against the soft leather chair as her cheeks rose in a smile. In Eric’s opinion, it was neither warm nor comforting. She began, “That’s why I was looking for you. Haven’t you listened to the news?”

Eric relaxed his stance. “Why so many questions about my personal habits? No, I usually avoid anything that isn’t music or silence.” He went on, “Before you ask, there’s no real reason, I like quiet.”

She motioned toward the chairs near the desk. “Have a seat; we need to discuss a few things.”

Suspiciously, Eric eyed the chairs. “Before I sit, tell me what’s going on Catherine.”

Sitting straighter and squaring her shoulders, Catherine exhaled, “From now on, you and anyone else who wishes to maintain their position here on the estate will address me as Ms. London.” When Eric didn’t speak, Catherine’s eyebrow raised. “Tell me, do you wish to maintain your position?”

Honestly, he had enough money to walk away and live contently for the rest of his life. He’d invested well and had little to no living expense; however, Mr. Rawlings told him to go back to Iowa and act normal. Maintaining his current position would be normal. “Yes, Ms. London”—the title only hurt the first time. Eric Hensley was a man of service; as such, he’d accommodate whomever necessary—“I would like to retain my position.” With that, he made his way to the chair and listened as Ms. London informed him of Mr. Rawlings’ disappearance.

While she spoke about the plane and the emergency landing, he did his best to maintain his facade, while showing the appropriate amount of concern and shock. The best part of being a man of service was that silence was considered accommodating. He didn’t need to agree or disagree with Catherine. He only needed to maintain eye contact, nod occasionally and say, “Yes, Ms. London.” He had years of practice.

The text Harry received was exactly what he’d wanted. He looked up and glanced toward the young waitress. With a sly grin, he nodded. Oh, he’d already paid her for her photography skills, and now he had his proof. On his phone were two pictures of him with Claire. There was one of the two of them in the booth talking, and there was the one of them in the same booth with, her hand in his. She was in disguise, but to the knowing eye, it was Claire Nichols. Within seconds, Harry forwarded the non-contact picture to his superiors in the FBI with a text message:

“CLAIRE NICHOLS FOUND AND SAFE.” After he hit SEND, he saved both photos to his card. He didn’t know if they would be useful.

His confident grin began to fade as he realized Claire hadn’t returned. It was true, a woman in her condition needed to use the restroom, frequently, but looking at his watch, he thought it seemed odd she hadn’t returned. It wasn’t until the waitress returned with his beer and no tea that Harry questioned her absence. “Where is my friend’s tea?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Signore. I assumed, since she left...”

He didn’t wait for the rest of the story. Harry pulled a few euros from his pocket, placed them on the table, and hurried towards the restrooms. Seeing the rear exit, he quickly reached the door. Harry couldn’t believe she’d left. He never assumed she’d slip away that fast. As the cool autumn air filled his lungs, Harry scanned the crowds. Since she’d left the booth over five minutes ago, he truly didn’t expect to see her.

After a brisk walk through the Piazza, Harry leaned against a pillar and pulled out his phone. Hitting a few buttons, he found the beacon. According to the locating device he’d successfully dropped in the pocket of her jacket, Claire wasn’t far away or moving. Following the pulsating dot, Harry headed toward what he assumed to be Claire’s hotel.

Phil helped Claire with her coat and led her to the sofa. He must have felt her trembling as he said, “Calm down and tell me everything.”

Claire stared into his eyes. She’d expected him to be upset. Obviously, he was unhappy when she left him at the cafe; however, instead of anger, she saw concern as golden flecks shone from the depths of his green eyes. Taking unexpected solace in his calming presence, Claire began, “I was sitting on a concrete bench, in St. Mark’s Square, looking out at the water...” As she told Phil about her unlikely encounter with Harry, he remained quiet and supportive. She also told him about Tony’s plane. When she finally finished, she said, “I’m so sorry. All this work you’ve done to keep me and my baby safe and in one afternoon I throw it all away.”

Phil stood, leaving Claire alone on the sofa, and paced the width of their suite. Claire watched as he contemplated her story. Finally, he answered, “First, you didn’t throw it all away. You and your baby are still safe. Also”—he turned towards her and smiled—“your instincts are getting better, I’m glad you’re learning to listen to them.”

Claire opened her eyes in question.

“Claire, you’ve been far too trusting of too many people for way too long.”

She nodded. “I realize that. I suppose it’s the way I was raised. I never expected my life to be like this. Truthfully, I can’t even remember what I expected”—she shrugged—“Something like my parents, I guess. Isn’t that the basis of everyone’s expectations? You either want the same as them or better. My parents were married twenty-six years when they died—together. I never once dreamt that I’d be twenty-nine, divorced and pregnant with my ex-husband’s/fiancé’s/ex-fiancé’s child, nor did I imagine that I’d be hiding from some crazy woman who’s a threat to me and my child—or that I’d be filthy rich, because I stole my child’s father’s secret money.” Claire shook her head and grinned. “I don’t think I could’ve even made-up that scenario!”

Phil sat back down. Claire marveled at the emotions she saw in his expression. It wasn’t that long ago that he was her shadow, her voyeur; now she considered him a trusted friend. Phil’s voice reflected his earlier concern. “No one signs up for this. It is what it is, and life goes on—or it doesn’t. I’ve made choices I regret. I’d assume everyone has. I also made the decision that life would go on. Perhaps some of the things I’ve done are less than scrupulous; however, my more recent endeavor, despite the legalities, could be considered one of my most honorable. I will not fail. You and your child will be safe. I realize you’re paying me, well, as you stated, but even you should understand this is about more to me than money.”

Claire fought the urge to look away. She knew what he meant. Claire knew she meant more to Phil than anyone ever had. Over the weeks, they’d been together, she learned a lot about Phil. She knew about his military background and some of his special ops. She knew he had no family and no connections. From the time he was very young, he succeeded in his assignments and moved on. This was the first—the only—time he’d made personal contact with anyone. Claire also knew he respected her enough to keep their friendly relationship professional—or was it, their professional relationship friendly? Either way, it was more than he’d ever had, and she was grateful for his commitment.

“I don’t know what it was about this afternoon,” Claire said. “Something didn’t feel right. I have no reason to be suspicious of Harry. He’s never been anything but nice to me. It’s just...I mean, I know how hard you’ve worked to keep our location secret, and with the help of some California policemen, he tracked me down?”

“See, that’s the kind of intuition that’ll keep you and that baby safe”—Phil sat straighter—“I should also tell you, I’ve known about Mr. Rawlings’ plane since it happened, or since they released the information. I thought you knew and weren’t saying anything.”

“No, I’ve been avoiding news from the states lately. I’m so tired of hearing about Emily’s quest to find me. It makes me feel guilty”—she looked back to Phil—“If we’re confessing, I should tell you, I left something for Tony in the safety deposit box in Geneva.”

Phil’s brows creased.

“It wasn’t like I told him where we’re going. I hoped that after Marcus Evergreen, or the FBI, contacted him, he’d know to get away from Catherine. I assumed he’d eventually get to Geneva, to the safety deposit box. I figured after he opened it, he’d want to contact me”—she snickered—“He won’t be happy to find his money is mostly gone.”

Incredulous, Phil asked, “You left something in the box that allows him to contact you?”

“I promise—he’s the only one who’ll know. I have a back-up plan if someone else gets in the box.”

“Is that why you’ve been so hesitant to leave Europe?”

She shrugged. “It was; however, after this afternoon, I’m ready.”

Phil patted her hand as it rested upon her knee. “Good, we’ll leave soon.” Standing once again, he asked, “And where, Ms. Nichols, are we going?”

Claire smiled, and this time, despite the colored contacts, even her eyes joined the celebration. “You swear it’s a real medical facility?” Phil nodded. “Then, Mr. Roach, I trust you, and we”—she paused and widened her grin—“the Alexanders, are going to paradise!”