Convicted - Romig Aleatha (мир книг .TXT) 📗

Agent Jackson leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what; I’m tired—you’re tired, and I don’t anticipate this ending anytime soon. The Bureau has kindly arranged for you, Mr. Rawlings, to spend the night. Mr. Simmons, by signing the gag order and release forms, you too will be provided accommodations until this situation is resolved.”

Brent stood. “This is Anthony Rawlings, CEO of Rawlings Industries. You cannot hold him without probable cause.”

Agent Jackson stood to meet Brent’s gaze. “Despite your client’s recent loss of memory, I guarantee we have probable cause; however, if you gentleman aren’t ready to call it a night”—he handed Brent the binder—“Then I suggest you and your client review this testimony. We can continue this discussion in a few hours.”

Tony’s blood boiled. He’d spent hours being questioned about Claire, their relationship, and her disappearance. Not once had anyone from the FBI volunteered information regarding her safety or whereabouts. Getting angry hadn’t produced any results; he decided to try cooperation. Slapping his hand on the table, he exhaled. “If this will help you find Claire, I’ll stay, but once again, I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with her disappearance. I want her found—safe and sound. If you have information regarding her whereabouts, I deserve to know.”

Agent Jackson looked at his watch. “Mr. Rawlings, what you deserve, has yet to be determined. Gentlemen, I’ll have food delivered. I suggest you utilize this time as a meeting of the minds. This case has taken unexpected twists and turns, and I want answers when I return.”

Tony looked down at his hands. This man and the whole damn FBI were holding him essentially against his will. He hadn’t had this kind of restriction placed on his comings and goings since childhood—it was absurd. As Agent Jackson left the room, Tony didn’t bother to stand; being polite to the man holding him hostage wasn’t high on Tony’s priority list.

His mind spun trying to decipher meaning from the agent’s questions. Agent Jackson asked Tony when he last saw Claire. He asked if he’d spoken to her while he was in Europe. Why he cut his European trip short? Why he hired a bodyguard for Claire? What happened in California that led to Claire’s hospitalization? After showing pictures of Claire with Harrison Baldwin, the agent asked if Tony was sure he was the father of Claire’s unborn child.

Yes, that innuendo could have landed Tony in custody for assault, if Brent hadn’t been quick enough to separate the two.

Looking around at the drably painted walls, he rolled his head upon his shoulders and looked toward his friend and attorney. It was their first opportunity to speak alone since Brent’s arrival. Tony cleared his throat. “Thanks for getting out here to Boston so fast.”

Brent’s stance softened. “You know it’s true; they can hold you up to forty-eight hours without charges.”

“Why won’t they give us any information on Claire?”

“I’d assume they want to learn what you know first.” As Brent spoke, he opened the binder. Tony watched Brent’s face blanch as he scanned the pages. For minutes, Tony sat and studied his friend’s expression. With each passing second Brent’s expression became harder and grimmer.

As the tension grew, Tony asked, “What is that?”

Brent didn’t answer; instead, he walked to a chair in the corner of the room, turned on another light, and continued reading.

“I’m getting fuck’n sick of no one answering my questions,” Tony muttered as he paced about the room. The day had been too long.

Tony thought pensively about Sophia and wondered if she’d shown up for dinner at the Inn at Crown Pointe, only to be stood up. Glancing at Brent engrossed in his reading, Tony collapsed once again in the metal chair, placed his elbows on the table and supported his head. In desperate need of a reprieve, Tony closed his eyes and tried to push his concerns for Claire away.

What did unexpected twists and turns mean? Could Claire be—dead? No! Tony refused to believe that.

Behind his closed lids, he didn’t see the darkness of escape; instead, emerald green filled his imagination. When was the last time he saw her? They asked him that over and over. He’d seen her image on his video surveillance getting in the car, but in person—he remembered it vividly:

It was early—very early—the morning he left for Europe—much earlier than Claire liked to wake. As the first rays of sunlight emerged from behind the heavy drapes, Tony was ready to leave. Claire wasn’t stirring, yet he didn’t want to leave without talking to her. Actually, she’d asked him to wake her; however, as he stood watching, she looked so peaceful and content. He hated disturbing her slumber.

Her rhythmic breathing moved pieces of her hair as they hung over her beautiful face. Before he could stop himself, Tony brushed the strands away from her cheek. Beneath the disheveled brown hair he found pink, slightly parted lips. Without hesitation he bent down and touched his lips to hers. The warmth of his kiss stirred her, causing her face to incline toward his. Though her eyes were still closed, her lips engaged as she reached for his neck.

Her sleepy voice questioned, “You woke me up before you left?”

“You told me to.”

Her eyes opened, revealing a bewildered expression.

“Why are you looking at me that way? You said you wanted me to wake you.”

“I know.” She sat up, their gaze unbroken. “I’m just not used to you listening to me, or doing what I say.”

He pressed closer, feeling the sensation of her breasts against his chest. “Well, we could go back to—”

Claire shook her head as she, once again, surrounded his neck with her arms. “No, I like this better.”

His devilish grin couldn’t be contained. “Well, last night you didn’t seem to mind a few directions or should I say suggestions?”

Her cheeks reddened as she hid her face in his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I like that too.”

Taking her chin in his gentle grasp, Tony searched her eyes. He could get lost in the depths of the green—emerald green—so deep and rich. “I was hoping I could change your mind about joining me on this trip.”

Their noses nearly touched as her lids fluttered and her expression softened. “When do you need to leave?”

It wasn’t the response he wanted; he wanted her to say she’d come to Europe with him. “The plane’s ready. Eric’s waiting in the car.”

Claire’s expression beckoned, her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, and her words came between butterfly kisses to his neck, “I don’t think”—“Eric would mind”—“waiting a little longer”—“Besides”—“you’re going to be gone”—“for almost two weeks”

As Claire’s fingers moved toward his belt and her lips touched his newly exposed chest, Tony’s travel plans seemed suddenly insignificant. Then, before Tony could take this moment any farther, Claire kissed him, smiled, and said, “Give me a minute.”

“Seriously, you’re going to do this to me and walk away?”

Claire didn’t look back as she walked toward the bathroom, giggled, and mumbled something about ‘it’ being his fault. She was right. The pregnancy was his fault; nonetheless, watching her in nothing but her long silk nightgown, he couldn’t help grinning. Her normal clothes didn’t accentuate their growing baby, but in that nightgown, he could see her growing midsection plain as day. When she returned, he was back in bed. His travel clothes neatly piled on a nearby chair.

As Claire started to climb in bed, their eyes met and Tony shook his head.

“What?” she asked, as her smile melted his soul.

He tried for his most formidable voice. “Ms. Nichols, you started this. I believe you are excessively overdressed.”