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.
The room exploded in red. In the love-hate battle, Tony’s barometer shot toward hate. How could she so casually sell the representation of their union, their visible contract? After the mental chaos faded and Tony’s mind cleared, he thought about her rings. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—allow another woman to wear those rings. They’d been designed and purchased for Claire. The thought of anyone else wearing them infuriated him more than the idea of her selling them. Tony didn’t respond to the email in kind; instead, he picked up his phone and barked orders. Saying them aloud helped to dull his overwhelming sense of impotency. “I want the damn rings, and I don’t care how much you have to pay to get them. If this Pulvara man sold them, find the buyer and get them. Don’t disappoint me. I want them in Iowa tomorrow!”
Roach didn’t disappoint; he even delivered the rings in person to Tony’s office. Now, within the confines of his suite, Tony possessed her rings and her grandmother’s necklace. During less lucid moments, he’d imagine returning the rings to their rightful owner. He’d envision her smiling, emerald gaze as she’d extend her petite hand. The eyes in his imagination swirled with a combination of desire and happiness, as he’d slip the platinum band and sparkling diamond back onto her finger. Those were the moments when love overpowered hate.
Tony looked through his inbox and found Cameron Andrew’s emails. He clicked and reread the last few weeks of reports. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with his ex-wife’s release and new life, he’d have known about Sophia’s move. Would it have mattered? Maybe this move would streamline his life. Tony chuckled as he pulled up a map of Silicon Valley. Perhaps he should fire one of his private investigators. The red
arrows said it all: Sophia and Claire were living mere miles apart.
Exhaling, Tony minimized his screen. He was going to California. After over eight years of—on again and off again—watching Claire from afar, he wasn’t going to do it any longer. He clicked on Roach’s most recent email and exhaled at the displeasure of seeing Claire’s life unfold in pictures. With a fresh tumbler of bourbon, he stared at the screen. Before him he saw Claire and Harrison Baldwin dining at some restaurant. The hair on the back of Tony’s neck bristled as he observed their level of comfort. Roach had many attributes: one was the ability to take pictures in rapid succession. By activating the slideshow program, Tony could watch as if it were a movie, and like a real video from his surveillance, he could also pause and stare at each frame.
Weeks ago, Roach had sent background information on Amber McCoy and Harrison Baldwin. It was pretty straightforward: they were siblings—same mother with different fathers—who were both were on the payroll of SiJo, and both lived in the same condominium complex in Palo Alto. What his research didn’t answer was… why? Why would Claire turn to Amber McCoy, Simon Johnson’s fiancée, for help? How did they become friends? Tony met Amber at Simon Johnson’s funeral, the same time Claire met her. It didn’t make sense.
He paused the slide show at the sound of Catherine’s knock. As he looked up, she entered. “Have you learned anything new?”
Tony didn’t want to discuss Claire with Catherine. Claire was his, and he didn’t want to share; however, he acquiesced, knowing it was he who had brought Claire into Catherine’s life. “I just opened an email.”
Catherine walked around the desk and peered over Tony’s shoulder. “Hmm, I don’t think you need to worry.” She smirked. “She seems to be rebuilding her life quite well.”
Tony minimized the screen and turned to glare. “I could use less innuendo.”
Sitting down, Catherine shrugged. “I didn’t realize I was insinuating. I’m being honest. She looks happy.”
He hated to admit that Catherine was right. “Roach said they’re friends. He hasn’t seen anything to indicate—”
“That’s not what the articles are saying. I saw one that said she was living with—”
The muscles in Tony’s neck flinched. “Catherine, I think we both know that reporters like to sensationalize things.”
“So you believe that she’s living with Simon Johnson’s fiancée?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Maybe they’re all one big, happy family living under one roof.”
“No,” he responded adamantly. “Roach said that Baldwin’s apartment is on the same floor as his sister’s. Claire is living with the sister.”
After a prolonged silence, Catherine asked, “Why?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Tony admitted he didn’t know. He couldn’t figure it out. “But,” he added, “I guess that we should be happy she has a place to live.”
“We should?”
“Do you want her living on the street?”
“That’s not what I mean. She has a sister.”
“I’m not defending her choice.”
“I would hope not,” Catherine quipped. “We both know that choices aren’t her strong suit.”
“Then perhaps she needs guidance.”
“And I suppose you know a willing teacher?”
“I have work in California next week.”
She lifted a brow. “Work?”
“Yes, I have subsidiaries on the West Coast that need my attention.”
Catherine nodded. “I’m surprised it took you so long.”
“I’d go now, after these latest pictures, but Claire’s going out of town tomorrow—to Texas.”
“Texas? By herself?”
“That’s what Roach said, but of course, he’ll be there, too. So we’ll find out exactly what she’s doing.”
“And when you’re in California…?” Catherine probed.
Tony straightened his shoulders. “Do you want me to say it? Do you want to hear it?”
“Anton, I want you to admit it to yourself.”
“Fine! I want to put her on my plane, bring her back here, and convince her that this is where she belongs.” He sighed. “I want her to want to be here, to admit that she’s miserable in California. I want…” His words trailed away as he maximized the pictures on his screen.
As he gazed at Claire’s expression in picture after picture, Catherine’s voice infiltrated his thoughts. “She’s all over the Internet. If she suddenly went missing, it would be noticed.”
He ran his hand over his cheeks, rubbing his stubbly growth. “I know. I know that I can’t do that again. She needs to realize it on her own, and I don’t know…” He couldn’t complete the sentence. Anthony Rawlings rarely admitted lack of knowledge, but he honestly didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do to make her understand. He looked up at Catherine’s gray eyes and knew that she saw through him. The two of them had been through too much together.
“She knows you.” Catherine’s voice softened. “Perhaps better than you know yourself. You need to help her understand what she knows.”
Tony nodded. “What if… if she doesn’t want to know?”
“She does. She wants to know more about you and why things happened the way they did.”
His brows lifted. “How do you know that?”
“I know you don’t see me as one, but Anton, I’m a woman.”
“I know you’re a woman. What does that have to do—”
“I know what it’s like to be an outsider in this household. She lived here for almost two years, and yet never knew the family secrets. She never knew the why.”
“She’ll hate us forever if she knows. I can’t—”
Catherine’s head shook from side to side. “You underestimated her ability to survive. You underestimated her ability to get to you. Don’t underestimate her ability to understand.” She started walking toward the door.
“Marie.”
She turned toward him with an unspoken question.
“I want her back.” His voice was barely audible as he choked back unwanted emotion.
“I know.”
“She’s mine.”
Catherine smiled. “Remind her.”
He looked back at the screen. Baldwin’s hand was on Claire’s lower back. If she weren’t leaving for Texas in the morning, Tony would fly to Palo Alto immediately; instead, he emailed his personal shopper and instructed her to order Claire a new outfit. He’d have it delivered with a note informing her of their impending date. He’d given up trying to reach her by phone—she refused to answer the number Roach had given him. That was fine. He’d sent flowers to let her know that he knew her address. Now, he’d send this. Tony would get through to her one way or the other.
The best thing you can do is the right thing; the next best thing you can do is the wrong thing; the worst thing you can do is nothing.
—Theodore Roosevelt
Finding a plausible excuse to visit the West Coast wasn’t difficult. Rawlings Industries had subsidiaries all over the world. Tony was aware of these companies, followed them, and contacted them regularly, mostly from a distance. No doubt, some of the directors sitting around the conference table in San Francisco were less than comfortable with the parent company’s CEO’s sudden personal interest. It didn’t matter. Anthony Rawlings could conduct the web conference from Rawlings headquarters, his estate, or a conference room in California. He could do whatever he damn well wanted.
He’d made that clear to Shelly, his publicist, during an earlier telephone conversation.
“Mr. Rawlings, you—we—have worked diligently to distance you from Ms. Nichols. In case you forgot, she was incarcerated for your attempted murder. Besides, you’ve moved on. I mean, just a little over a week ago you were photographed with Dr. Newman’s daughter, Angela. The acceptance numbers in Iowa were through the roof. The people of your home state were abuzz with the idea of Anthony Rawlings with Angela Newman.
The two of you are both considered Iowa royalty.”
“Shelly, while I appreciate your hard work, and I pay you extremely well to do your job, my personal life is my business.”
“Sir, you know that’s not true. Everything you do is watched. Right now, everything Ms. Nichols does is watched. I’ve been following the reports and even have a continual search running. Mr. Rawlings, her Klout score is through the roof. Everyone is talking about her. She was even mentioned on one of the late night—”
“Perhaps you misunderstood my call. I didn’t call to seek your permission to see my ex-wife. I called to inform you that I will be seeing my ex-wife. I’m taking her to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Please, if I may be so direct, be discreet.”
“Didn’t you just say that we’re both watched people? How discreet do you expect me to be?”
Shelly sighed. “Mr. Rawlings, I believe that if you set your mind to something—even the seemingly impossible—you will accomplish that goal.”
“I wanted you informed, and I’ll do what I can on my end. You do your job and spin it however it needs to be spun.”
“Thank you for the advance notice. I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will, Shelly. You never disappoint.”
Tony didn’t appreciate Shelly, Catherine, or anyone else telling him what he should or shouldn’t do with his private life. Granted, it was Shelly’s job, and that’s why he called her in the first place. Catherine, on the other hand, was family—dysfunctional and totally messed up—but as close to family as either one had.
Truthfully, Catherine did have family, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it. Another goal of Tony’s trip to California was to do his part to bring Catherine’s daughter into the art fold of Northern California. If Catherine was family, then so was Sophia. Tony had made a promise to Nathaniel to watch over Sophia and help her. He’d tried, but too often Tony’s personal life had gotten in the way. Now he intended to help her focus on her talent and career. After the web conference concluded, Tony had a scheduled meeting with Roger Cunningham of Shedis-tics to discuss one of his newest employees, Derek Burke. Perhaps Sophia believed that she needed to follow Derek to California because of his new income. Today, Tony would decide if Burke would be allowed to continue that new position. Surely, enticing Derek Burke to California just to take it all away would be difficult on their marriage. Maybe that would be the way to rid her of the man who didn’t deserve her.
Behind His Eyes: Truth Page 4