“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.”