“A walk?” she asked.
He grinned at her change of tone. “Yes, Claire—to your lake?”
She smiled and nodded. “I-I’d like that very much.”
He kissed the hand he’d secured. “Please allow me to escort you to your suite. I’ll give you Courtney’s number, and you may use the lock you requested. Actually,” his eyes narrowed. “I suggest you do.”
Boldly, she leaned into his chest. If only she knew how much he wanted to repeat the scene in Amber’s condominium. Her face tipped upward as she purred, “You know, we never did this.”
“This what?” He couldn’t think straight.
“We never dated. I guess we did on two occasions, in Atlanta.” Her smile didn’t falter at the reference. “I like it.”
Tony gently squeezed her hand, and they ascended the front steps. “We’d better get you behind a locked door, so I don’t do anything to ruin this date.” He emphasized the last word.
Claire smiled slyly. “Actually, according to a definition I recently heard, we need to be in public for this to be a date.”
Bold and cheeky. Tony gave her hand another small squeeze.
Chapter Eleven
Changes—June 2013
(Truth Chapters 44 & 46)
There is nothing more profound or of lasting consequence than the decision to have a child.
—Raymond Reddington, The Blacklist
The visit to the lake was everything Tony hoped for and more. It wasn’t that it hadn’t occurred to him over the last year and a half to visit Claire’s lake. It had. The thing was, he wasn’t adept at finding his way through the wooded terrain. Tony could face a table of adversaries knowing that he would cut off their financial lifeline. He could study a stack of spreadsheets and instinctively know which companies could be saved and which ones should be closed… but walking through trees, climbing slopes, and ending at a pristine lakeshore was nowhere in his skill set.
Claire, on the other hand—Tony had total faith in her abilities. Once they reached the shore and she asked if he’d been there during her absence, his answer was heartfelt, “No, I’d be lost without you.”
Can one statement be layered in sentiment? If so, it was. Tony would never have found the crystal clear lake with glistening waves without Claire. To be completely honest, he had no desire. Spending the afternoon sitting on the lakeshore, while deals and opportunities came and went at record speed, was not Anthony Rawlings’ modus operandi. But sitting on a lake shore, enticing the one woman in the whole world, to recognize that skinny-dipping was exactly what they both needed—well, that was Tony Rawlings’ MO, especially when it came to the woman named Claire (used-to-be Rawlings) Nichols.
Of course she didn’t agree. Why did he think there was a chance? She was the same woman who pulled a sheet over her beautiful round breasts and projected modesty at every opportunity. She was the same woman who’d put him in his figurative place, more than once. Claire was the woman who spun his otherwise calm, predictable life out of control. Her refusal spurred his desire more than an acceptance ever would.
When they returned to the estate, Claire said she was tired, and before they went to the rehearsal dessert and wine celebration, she wanted to nap. Tony willingly agreed; after all, between traveling and nerves, she had every right to be tired. He mused that if she planned to fly to him every two weeks for their scheduled appearances, Claire needed to get used to the traveling. Maybe this would be the perfect stepping-stone to suggest she stay in Iowa. He’d emphasize that it was for her benefit, to make it less taxing.
They planned to eat dinner on the back patio before going to the celebration. In the past, it had been their practice that Tony would retrieve Claire from her suite for dinner and walk her to the dining room or patio; however, since they hadn’t specifically said, Tony went to the patio and waited. With each passing minute, a voice from nowhere—one he tried to ignore—reminded him about his aversion to waiting. Each glance at his watch made the voice clamor louder about the consequences of tardiness. By most people’s standards, Claire wasn’t late; however, she most definitely wasn’t on time. If Catherine hadn’t reassured Tony that Claire was awake from her nap, he could assume that she was still asleep and go wake her as he’d done the day before.
When 7:00 PM came and went, Cindy asked, “Mr. Rawlings, would you like me to serve your meal?”
No. No, he wasn’t eating alone. That was the point of having Claire on the estate. “Not yet, Cindy.”
“Would you like me to check on Ms. Claire?”
Throwing his napkin on the table, he replied, “No, I’ll go.”
Each step toward her suite was a battle against the red. Claire wanted to be bold and cheeky, fine, but rules and expectations didn’t change because she wanted to spout a daring retort. Tony made himself stop before opening her door. He inhaled and exhaled… and knocked. He waited, perhaps not long. When she didn’t respond, he turned the handle. Scanning the suite, she was nowhere to be found. Could she still be getting ready? He called out her name and reached for the handle to the bathroom door. Suddenly, the cloud of displeasure that had grown in intensity dissipated into a storm of concern. Sitting on the edge of the whirlpool tub, wrapped in the pink robe, was his Claire, her complexion ashen, her face drenched in perspiration, and her body trembling. Tony fell to his knees as his mind went into overdrive. “What’s the matter with you? Are you sick? I’ll get you the best doctors…”
Instead of replying, Claire shook her head and bolted from the tub’s edge. Tony was at a loss as he listened to Claire vomit within the confines of the small, attached room that contained the lavatory. Did he go to her? Did he stay where he was? Did he call a doctor? Call Catherine? While he debated, his mind searched for answers—that’s what he did. Anthony Rawlings found answers. First, he needed to know what questions to ask. The first stop would be a doctor.
By the time Claire walked out of the small room, her petite frame had regained some semblance of normalcy. Tony stood silently, as Claire walked more steadily to the sink, rinsed her mouth, and then turned toward him and proclaimed, “Tony, I’m not sick.”
He gently reached for her shoulders. “What do you mean? You’re obviously ill. I’ll call Brent. They’ll understand.”
“No, I want to go. I’ll be better soon. It usually doesn’t hit this hard in the afternoon. I think I’m just stressed.”
“What doesn’t hit…?” He studied Claire’s green eyes. Along with her strength, color now returned to her once pale cheeks. The information was processing at record speed: her aversion to bacon at the restaurant, her ravenous hunger this afternoon, her frequent naps. Tony’s tone unconsciously morphed from a concerned companion to a CEO in need of answers. “What doesn’t hit?”
“The nausea.”
Each word came slower and deeper than the last. “Brought. On. By. What?”
Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she replied, “I’m seven weeks pregnant, almost eight.”