Behind His Eyes - Truth (5 page)

Glancing at the numerous pictures from his years of surveillance, Tony wondered if he and Claire had come full circle.
Would it be like this again? Would his only connection to her be through this new investigator? Would he only see Claire in two dimensions?
Tony searched for their contract, the beginning of their personal journey together. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy again. If he were to get her back to Iowa and into his life, it wouldn’t be because of a signature on a napkin.

Then he shook his head. He didn’t want her back, did he? Hell, the lack of sleep was making him sentimental. He stopped his search. The damn contract was no longer valid; it never had been—legally. Pushing the box back into its hideaway, he contemplated throwing it all away. Having her back wasn’t his goal; learning her location was. She had no right to disappear.

With the necklace in his hand, Tony settled upon the soft leather sofa in front of his fireplace. If Phillip Roach were correct, in a few moments he’d hear the voice that used to fill his suite and his house. When her voice came through his phone, Tony wanted to
feel
her presence. He imagined the sound as he looked up at her wedding portrait and saw the emerald green that haunted his dreams.
What did he want to hear?
He wanted to know she was safe and unharmed. He wanted to know where she was, and he also wanted to bring her back to Iowa—because that was where she belonged.

It didn’t make sense. To the world she was the woman who tried to kill him. To Tony she was more than that. The past twenty hours had proven it. She was his drug. Claire Nichols ran through his system like ecstasy, sending him on otherwise unobtainable highs. He reasoned that lows followed highs, and she’d given him those, too; they’d given them to each other. Nevertheless, without the right stimulant, the euphoria could never again be achieved. Whether it was elation or misery, neither would be obtainable without the exhilarating potency of Claire. He didn’t want an empty envelope. He wanted her. Nathaniel was wrong: Claire wasn’t gone; she was just misplaced.

For the last twenty-four hours, his entire being had surged with anticipation. Claire may not understand it—hell, Tony didn’t understand it, but he couldn’t deny it. Now that she was gone, he needed her back in his life, and he would have her.

Tony shook his head. He was acting like a heartsick schoolboy. He squared his shoulders and exhaled. The telephone number from Roach was already programmed into his phone, and of course, his number was blocked. The clock read 9:47 PM. Tony honestly didn’t know for sure where he was calling. Roach suspected California, and if that were the case, it would be two hours earlier there. Momentarily, Tony contemplated a drink to calm his nerves. No, the only drug he wanted was unknowingly waiting for his call.

The small cream-colored pearl swung from his finger like a pendulum, keeping rhythm with the ringing phone. When the ringing stopped, time stood still. The anticipation was over. Claire’s voice came through loud and clear.

“Hello?”

It electrified him from head to toe.

Relief. Hurt. Love.
Loss
.

Her greeting was a torpedo hitting the dam he’d built around his memories. His mind flooded. He was back in time to her first coherent night at the estate. Even in her shocked condition, Claire stood tall—for her—and defiant. No longer was Tony seeing the woman in the designer wedding gown. No, behind his closed eyes, he saw Claire Nichols—his acquisition.

“Good evening, Claire.” He greeted her in a tone drenched in debonair swagger. As he awaited Claire’s response, Tony heard other voices. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Now Claire, we’ve been through this before. It is customary for one person to respond to the greeting of another. I said,
good evening
.”

“Hello.”

He grinned at the change in her tone. Undoubtedly, his call took her by surprise. “Very good,” Tony praised. “I thought perhaps we would need to review common pleasantries.”

Momentary silence gave way to her stronger declaration. “Good-bye, Tony.”

His cheeks rose higher, listening to her rediscovered strength. Tony pictured his ex-wife squaring her shoulders with fire blazing in the depths of her emerald eyes. She wasn’t broken. “Claire, you should know that I learned of your release less than twenty-four hours ago. As you can hear, I already have your telephone number. How long do you think it will take for me to learn your location?”

“It seems as though
you
have lost the ability to perceive meaning.
Good-bye
means this conversation is over. For the record, that includes future conversations. I’m sure you remember, once a discussion is closed, reopening it is not an option.”

A hearty laugh resonated through his suite. Tony couldn’t contain his amusement. “I have always admired your strength. Such a brave speech from someone hiding across the country…” He didn’t know for sure when she disconnected her phone. All Tony knew was that the line went dead. In a previous life, at a different time, he would’ve been irate that Claire—or anyone—would have had the audacity to hang up on
him
. Times change; Claire’s action was a challenge, one he gleefully accepted.

Once again, Tony dialed the number. This time it went to voice mail.
No, her spirit wasn’t broken.
If anything, she was stronger than before. He sent a text.

“ONLY I CLOSE DISCUSSIONS. THIS ONE IS STILL OPEN. I LOOK FORWARD TO RESUMING IT IN PERSON
…
”

And oh, he did! Tony didn’t know when, but he knew for sure that one day soon he’d be seeing the fire in those beautiful eyes and not in a picture. He would witness it firsthand.

Sighing, he reviewed their findings: the cancelled airline ticket to San Francisco and a California area code on the cell number. Tony scrolled through his recent calls for Phillip Roach’s number and called. The investigator answered on the first ring.

“Mr. Rawlings?”

“Mr. Roach, I wanted to confirm that the number you gave me is indeed Ms. Nichols’. It seems that the trail is pointing west. I’ll cover all your expenses. I want you to find Claire Nichols, and I want her found yesterday.”

Disconnecting the line, Tony sat silently and stared at the portrait. He hadn’t expected her early release from prison, but now that she was out, he was ready to reclaim what was his. Smirking, he considered her cell number,
her
cell number.
Could she have her own computer or car?
Perhaps she’s accumulating debt?
That tool had worked well before. He mused, “My, only two weeks removed from prison and so independent.”

Step One: Admitting that one cannot control one’s addiction or compulsion.

—Twelve-Step Program, Alcoholic Anonymous

“Mr. Rawlings, I sent you an email. I can resend,” Cameron Andrews, private investigator, said.

“Yes, do that. Sometimes things are blocked.” Tony knew that probably wasn’t the case. He hadn’t been paying attention.

Andrews continued to report, “Mrs. Burke closed her art studio in Provincetown and moved to Santa Clara.”

Tony shook his head against the phone. “Closed it?!”

“Temporarily. That’s what the sign said.”

If Sophia were willing to follow her husband across the country, she obviously didn’t recognize the future she had in the art world. Not every artist received an invitation to exhibit her work at the Florence Academy of Art. Tony remembered Italy, watching her from afar. Her poise and confidence were evident as both art enthusiasts and patrons praised her work and her new, bolder pieces. Tony couldn’t understand why she’d put that life aside to take a backseat to Derek’s ambitions; after all, Tony had spent a lot of money paving her way to fame and fortune. Derek’s
job
opportunity of a lifetime
was supposed to emphasize their differences, not bring them together.

“When did she move?” Tony asked.

“Yesterday,” Andrews replied.

“Keep an eye on her.” Tony’s mind swirled. There were more options; he just needed to concentrate. “Get me a list of names. I want to know all the art curators in the Santa Clara area. Perhaps we can get her connected to that local art world.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll get back to you with that.”

“I don’t believe she’s in danger. She doesn’t need constant monitoring. Just keep me up to date. And Andrews?”

“Yes?”

“Run some financial background checks on those curators and their studios. Let’s see if anyone is having difficulties during this recovering economy.” Tony added with a smirk, “I’ve always wanted to diversify into the world of art.”

Andrews chuckled. “Yes, I’m sure that will be a great investment. I’ll get back to you with some numbers in a day or two.”

“That’ll be fine.” Tony disconnected his phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn, after all the time and money he’d spent on Catherine’s daughter, it seemed like every time he looked away for a minute, her life spun in another direction. Derek’s job offer was no surprise; Tony had weaved that bit of manipulation personally. When the parent company’s CEO made a suggestion, presidents and vice presidents of subsidiaries listened, at least ones who enjoyed employment. Apparently, Roger Cunningham fell into that category. Sophia moving to California
was
a surprise. The last thing Tony had heard, Shedis-tics offered Burke the opportunity to fly east most weekends.

To Tony, it seemed like the perfect scenario: Burke alone in a new city with a pretty little assistant who was willing to make extra money. Tony never considered the possibility that his plan would fail.

Sophia deserved better than a
Burke.
Even if he was only a distant cousin from the Burkes on their list, he was still a Burke. She also deserved to flourish in her chosen career. Tony didn’t know much about art, but he knew how he felt about the portrait that graced his suite. Sophia had captured Claire’s eyes perfectly. Tony should know: he’d spent hours looking at her work. On more than one occasion, when the sweet burn of Blue Label couldn’t stop the bottomless pit of memories, he would stare at Claire’s wedding portrait and recall scene after scene, some good, some not.

Then he would remember her failure. Tony had experienced loss—most significantly, his family. He had seen his parents, covered in their own blood; however, the video footage of Claire driving away tore at him like nothing he’d ever known. His parents didn’t
willfully
leave him. The reports of murder/suicide were false. His grandfather didn’t
willfully
die in a hellhole of a prison with inept medical facilities. No, that blame fell on Jonathon Burke and Sherman Nichols. Claire
willfully
seized the first opportunity she found and left him. She failed his ultimate test.

Over the past year, on the rare occasions when Tony allowed the memories and thoughts to flow, he waged an internal war—love versus hate. At one time, he thought he loved her.
What the hell was love?
It wasn’t something he’d ever witnessed in real life, except perhaps on occasion between Marie and Nathaniel. He recalled moments—when they didn’t know he was present—when Tony saw an unfamiliar side of his grandfather.

Usually the man was in total control of everyone and everything, except during those moments.
Did Tony ever give that to Claire—control?
He’d never given that to anyone. With Claire, he needed control. He yearned for it, and she’d flourished under it. Obviously, when given a choice, she’d failed. Claire needed his guidance.

While she was in prison, Tony knew she was safe, secure, and unable to make poor decisions.

Now things were different and public.

Her damn picture wasn’t just showing up in his inbox from Roach. No, she was gracing magazine after magazine. In the new world of Internet frenzy, she was fuck’n
trending
. Tony didn’t know what to believe. Many articles claimed that she was penniless and destitute. Tony knew for a fact that wasn’t true. Roach reported a $100,000 windfall. It’d come from a cashier’s check that Roach traced back to a bank in New York. Unfortunately, it had been purchased with cash and the trail died.
Who would give Claire that kind of money?
Whoever it was didn’t have the balls to man up. If they had, Tony would have found a way to cut them off.

Tony’s anger at the initial source of funds was minimal compared to his rage when he learned that Claire had sold her jewelry—more specifically, her wedding rings. The sentence in Roach’s email seemed so benign, yet the moment the words registered, Tony was filled with unprecedented fury. Thankfully, the email came while he was in the privacy of his home:

I have traced the source of Ms. Nichols’ newfound wealth to a reputable jewelry broker in San Francisco. He has kept her sale confidential, out of the media, and well hidden. He utilizes offshore accounts to pay his customers, but after a few dead ends, I was confident that Mr. Pulvara was the source of Ms. Nichols’ nearly $800,000 windfall. To that end, I paid Mr. Pulvara a visit. After some persuasion, he admitted that he purchased a
necklace, earrings, and wedding rings
from Ms. Nichols
.