More scanning: long-time friendship is why Claire finally agreed to sit down and discuss her relationship with one of the world’s top bachelors.
Slowly his knees buckled and Tony’s tall, muscular body perched on the edge of his large leather chair. He continued reading: Anthony Rawlings has long been seen as a wonderful catch for that one deserving woman. He dated such women as supermodel Cynthia Simmons and recording artist Julia Owens. However, none of his previous relationships lasted long. That is until now, now that Rawlings and Nichols have been together. These two were first seen together in late May (see picture) at the Quad City Symphony not far from the large wooded estate of Anthony Rawlings. And since that time, they have been spotted by curious onlookers at various charity events, as well as taking on two of the nation’s biggest cities, New York (see picture) and Chicago (see picture).
Intermittently, he flipped back and forth between the pages and the photos of Claire with him. With each word and each picture his vision blurred. Red seeped from every direction, threatening to cover everything in its wake. The pages, his office—hell, his life were all dripping in red.
Such basic rules—how could Claire have been so stupid as to break the most basic of his rules? It wasn’t like he demanded that much from her.
There was still more article to read, but Tony’s eyes couldn’t focus. He envisioned Claire the other night at dinner in Chicago. He remembered the dress—it was tan and had sequins, even her jacket had sequins. They caught his attention because of the way they reflected the lights as they walked along the street from Trump Tower to the Cadillac Palace Theater.
Refocusing on the story, he saw the dress—it was in a picture of her with him—on the page before him, prepared for the world to see. Privacy! Why was that so fuck’n hard to ask? It wasn’t just the damn reporters taking their picture. No, that happened all the time. This was betrayal. This was disloyalty—insubordination!
Tony tried to reason. The other day at the barbeque, he’d jumped to conclusions. Could this be another misunderstanding? He looked at his watch—2:37 PM, East Coast time. He could be home before 6:00 PM.
He quickly folded the pages and placed them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Next, he dialed the phone on his desk. “Tom, I have to fly immediately back to Iowa.”
Tom was understandably shocked. They hadn’t reached any resolution on their deal, and they had hundreds of millions of dollars at stake. Tony wouldn’t give Tom specifics—only that something had happened back in Iowa, and he needed to be there. Tom assured his boss and his friend that he’d work diligently to keep the deal afloat.
Less than forty minutes later, Tony was airborne and headed west. The three-hour flight gave him ample opportunity to read and reread the article. Each time something new latched onto his consciousness:
Why Claire? What makes her the woman for a man like Anthony Rawlings?—She didn’t deny living in the Iowa City area—Claire and Anthony enjoyed the performance of “Wicked.”—Ms. Nichols spent the better part of the day enjoying all the comforts money could buy at one of the most exclusive day spas in Chicago—shopping at such stores as Saks Fifth Avenue, Anne Fontaine, Cartier, Giorgio Armani, and Louis Vuitton—Ms. Claire Nichols was ushered to the eighty-ninth floor of Trump Tower, the private city dwelling belonging to none other than Mr. Anthony Rawlings.
By the time the plane touched down in Iowa City, Tony knew he’d need to print another copy of the press release for Claire. The one in his hand was nearly shredded by the fervor of his grasp. He hadn’t been willing to let it leave his hand the entire flight.
Each time he told himself to be reasonable, Tony remembered Claire sitting at the dining room table a month ago, pledging her loyalty. He hadn’t asked for it. First, because he rarely asked, but more importantly, he never assumed he’d get it; nevertheless, on that evening after he’d returned from Europe, she’d offered it.
At the time, he questioned her motivation. After all, they’d just been through an episode, a glitch of sorts, and Claire had emerged stronger and more compliant than ever—a very appealing combination. He remembered thinking that perhaps glitches were an advantageous element in producing the woman he was creating.
That night in the dining room she’d volunteered, “Your absence was advantageous on many counts.” He remembered staring at her, stunned by her candor and unsure of where she was going. Finally, she broke the looming silence. “I believe it helped me recognize I owe you much, not just the money to repay my debt, but the confidence you’ve shown in me.”
He watched for signs of manipulation, yet she never faltered.
She had continued, “The confidence to trust me with your intimate beliefs …” She added, “I will not betray that confidence.”
Tony remembered allowing the silence to prevail as food came and the staff went. Once they were again alone, he replied, “Claire, if you’re sincere, then you never cease to amaze me. If, however, you’re playing me, you will regret it.” Anthony Rawlings wouldn’t be a successful businessman if he couldn’t read people, yet as much as he tried to see Claire’s deception—he couldn’t.
As Tony entered the front door of his estate, he realized his own mistake. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see Claire’s deception. It was that he wouldn’t. He wanted to trust her—hell, for the last month or more, he’d wanted to do more than that. He’d wanted to—dare he admit—have feelings. Now it was clear; Catherine was right: Claire had fuck’n played him!!!
Tony’s body trembled with the revelation as he walked toward his office. He needed to print a readable copy of the press release before he confronted Claire. He was done being a push-over. Forget her resolve and bravado. Screw her green eyes, soft skin, and sexy smile.
He brought Claire Nichols to Iowa for one reason—she had a debt to pay. Not the goddamn money. Tony didn’t give a rat’s ass about $215,000. No, Claire Nichols was the proverbial sacrificial lamb for the entire line of Nichols descendants—a child of a child. The vendetta rang in Tony’s head. He’d heard it over and over for twenty years. So what if he’d extracted some pleasure from her consequence? That was acceptable; however, her blatant disregard for his rules, her insubordination and disloyalty, were intolerable.
The ridiculous idea running through his mind these past few weeks, that there was anything more between them than business, would end today. Tony would stay strong and deliver the consequences Claire deserved.
When Tony initially entered Claire’s suite, he knew his mission: confront her about the interview, entertain the idea of a misconception—at least superficially, and deliver the appropriate punishment. It was a solid plan; however, that was a long time ago. As he sat in the chair near Claire’s sofa and minutes turned to hours and hours passed like days, Tony’s restraint evaporated. With each tick of the clock, his body stiffened and the red colored his vision.
Three hours! He’d been waiting in her suite for three fuck’n hours!
Catherine told him that Claire had gone to her lake for the day. Tony glanced toward the windows, as darkness fell over the land and enveloped her suite. He told himself, the damn day is done!
During the entire three hours that he’d been there, Tony hadn’t moved or turned on a light. Truly, he thought it was interesting how well his eyes adjusted. Never before could he remember experiencing each moment of diminishing illumination. As the darkness prevailed, the crimson hue grew.