Convicted (11 page)

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.