Consequences

with coffee and their luggage. If she were back in Iowa she could be on her way to her lake. Instead, she was sequestered in Tony’s apartment. She lay down on his big luxurious cold bed, covered herself with blankets, and fell asleep. When she awoke the clock said 12:30. Tony may not be back for at least five hours. If only she could contact him, find out his plans. Instead she investigated his apartment.
    Not surprisingly it was magnificent and apparently took the entire eighty-ninth floor. Like his New York apartment there were floor-to-ceiling windows throughout the dwelling. She found an office that contained computers and telephones, no doubt Tony’s home office in Chicago. She opened the office door, looked around, and closed it. Under no circumstance was she permitted in his home office without him. There was no reason to believe the rules would be different here.
    It occurred to Claire that perhaps Eric would be able to contact Tony and find out his expectations. Charles informed her that Eric was with Mr. Rawlings. He didn’t know when they planned to return.
    Next Charles served lunch. It bore a striking resemblance to her everyday lunches in Iowa. Claire knew that there were restaurants with various delicious foods just an elevator ride away. Her appetite disappeared, and she settled onto the sofa in the living room with a book. Between the stunning view and the undeniable yearning to be in the city, she had difficulty concentrating. Finally, at four thirty, Charles informed her that Mr. Rawlings called. They had dinner reservations for six and tickets to the theater, the eight thirty showing of “Wicked.”
    As she prepared for the evening, Claire opened her garment bag to a Nicole Miller taupe strapless dress with sequins. She’d never seen the dress before, but of course it would fit perfectly. The matching Gucci shoes and handbag completed the ensemble. It even had a small jacket with matching sequins, just right for an autumn evening. She piled her hair on top of her head with large spiral curls dangling down her neck.
    As she completed the finishing touches to her makeup, Tony entered the bedroom, greeted Claire, and went to the adjoining bath for a quick shower. She smiled. His tone sounded chatty, like other people were near, and his eyes were milk chocolate. He emerged from the bath clean-shaven, hair wet, and a towel around his waist. The aroma of aftershave filled the bedroom.
    Watching him, she momentarily thought about an ongoing conversation she’d been having lately with herself. It usually started with thoughts of him, pleasant thoughts. Then she would think about the way he made her feel or how much she liked to see him happy. It would then turn to questioning, something like, Are you completely crazy or only unstable. She didn’t know how she could be feeling this way about him. After all, he kidnapped her. He hurt her, but when he was good . . . Claire tried to remember, there was a song or something that said: when he is good, he is so good—and that summed it up.
    She pondered the many puzzling sides of this enigma as she watched him in the mirror. First, looking at him as he removed the towel, her pulse quickened and she forgot about her primping. No one could deny his incredibly handsome physique. Hell, he was gorgeous. Despite the almost twenty-year age difference, she observed his defined muscles, broad shoulders, and firm abdomen. Momentarily, she fantasized about the feel of his skin against hers. Second, he was undoubtedly an extremely successful businessman who desired to keep his life private. Third, he utterly and completely believed in appearances. Fourth, he had an insatiable sex drive. In that arena Claire had come to terms with his varying approaches, anywhere from tenderness to domination. However, the side of Tony that bothered Claire the most was his unpredictability. His temperament could shift without warning, making an Indiana tornado seem docile.
    Due to his position, his desire for privacy and appearances were understandable. It was the swiftness with which he could go from serene to furious that concerned her. Nevertheless, as Claire watched him dress, smelled his cologne, and heard him chat, her body tingled in anticipation. She looked forward to being on his arm, enjoying Chicago’s nightlife.
    Their dinner reservations were for Sixteen, a fine restaurant on the sixteenth floor of the Trump Tower. Their table had an amazing view of the Wrigley