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.
He worked to contain the fury in his chest and soul. It had been years since he’d experienced this depth of rage. Honestly, he hadn’t moved because he feared if he did, he’d break something or some things. That’s what used to happen when he was younger. He would break an object or punch a wall. There was one time at Blaire Academy when he punched another kid. The kid deserved it. He had said something about Tony’s grandmother. The damn teachers broke it up and no one was seriously hurt; nevertheless, his grandfather didn’t care about the why. He warned Anton to never let it happen again, and he hadn’t. It was surprisingly easy—remain detached. That was how he could buy companies and fire a roomful of people. They weren’t people: they were marks on a ledger.