Convicted (Consequences)

that made her pulse race. “Tony, please don’t leave the island.”
    Her plea pulled him from his thoughts. “What? How did you know I was thinking that?”
    She held his hands. “I won’t be able to rest if I’m thinking about you out in the boat. I know Francis showed you how to drive it and has taken you out, but I can’t bear to lose you again.”
    “Claire, I hate this feeling of helplessness.” He let go of her hands and paced near the open doors to the lanai. “This place is amazing, you’re amazing. I want to be here with you and our child; however, when I read about Rawlings Industries and now this—I feel like a caged animal. There are so many things I could be doing—if I were back home.”
    “I hoped you’d consider yourself home.”
    She saw his shoulders slump. His expression of amusement was short-lived. “How many times am I to hear my own words and phrases repeated to me?”
    Claire shrugged. “I don’t have a definitive number. What can I say?” She stepped toward him and reached for his cheek. Brushing it gently, she allowed the afternoon stubble to abrade the tips of her fingers. “You’re a wise man, and I’ve learned a lot from you. You should consider it an honor—imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
    “I think there are others who you’d be better to imitate.”
    Kissing his lips, she lingered on her tip toes and whispered, “Right now, I’m going to lay down. When I wake, I’ll trust that you haven’t disappointed me.”
    As she turned toward the bedroom, Tony seized her arm and pulled her back into his embrace. His sudden surge of power would’ve frightened her in the past. Today, she found it more than mildly erotic. “Tell me”—his dark stare intensified with each second—“why it took an electronic lock to hold you captive and mere words are doing it to me? Because I’ll be honest, I want to get in that boat and talk to a pilot. I promised to look after Sophia. She has no idea what kind of a woman her birth mother is capable of being. I’m the only one who can explain, yet with a few words from these beautiful lips”—his finger gently traced her lips—“I’m again helpless.”
    “Because you love me, and as committed as you are to Sophia, which is honorable, you’re more committed to me and our child.”
    Tony nodded. “I do love you—more than life itself; nevertheless, I’m going for that walk. I feel trapped, and at this moment, I need to remind myself Catherine is the one responsible—not you. As much as I love you”—he seized her shoulders—“and never forget that I do; right now, I’m not fond of the control you seem to have.”
    Claire nodded. She wanted honesty. That didn’t mean she liked everything she heard—she didn’t; however, wasn’t that the risk with honesty—accepting the truth no matter how it made you feel?
    Besides, deep down, Claire completely understood his position—she’d been there herself.
     

     
    Phil eased into the art gallery behind a twenty-something couple. It was the third one he’d visited in Davenport this afternoon. It looked similar to the others—art work highlighted by spot lights and three dimensional art showcased on stands. It wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t even sure how to pretend he liked any of it. Most of it didn’t look like art to him anyway. Who decided what constituted art, Phil wanted to know.
    As he walked slowly, pretending to appreciate the paintings which looked like something a five-year-old child could create, he saw Sophia out of the corner of his eye. She was moving from painting to painting, taking a painstaking amount of time to devour each piece. This was the third Friday in a row she’d gone to Davenport to visit the galleries. Once he found her, his directive was clear; text Ms. London and let her know Sophia’s location.
    Stepping into a side hallway, Phil did as he’d been told. He texted his employer:
    “MRS BURKE IS AT THE JOHN BLOOM GALLERY ON 12 TH STREET.”
    Next, he stood back and waited. As he stared at the canvas before him, he listened to two women discuss the use of color and shadowing. There were many things Phil knew. He could probably teach a course on surveillance—technology was his passion—he loved learning about new devices to make his job easier and more precise. When it came to computers, he could talk programming and hardware with the best of them; however, when it came to colors and shadowing, he didn’t have a