“What are you worried about?”
“Accidents.”
The word still caused the hair on the back of Claire’s neck to stand to attention. “What kind of accidents? You don’t think Catherine would harm her own daughter, do you?”
“I’m not sure she has boundaries. Look at what she’s done to us.”
Claire saw the restraint in his expression, exposed through the bulging veins of his neck. His jaws were clenched as he modulated his voice to its most accommodating tone. “It’s the middle of the afternoon and too hot for you to be out in the sun. You should rest and keep your feet up. I need to go for a walk.”
Claire wanted answers to her questions. How did Tony’s promise to Nathaniel influence his clandestine protectiveness of Sophia? What exactly were Catherine’s capabilities? Where were Tony’s boundaries? However, sensing his distress, she didn’t ask. They’d been down too many difficult roads lately. This situation wasn’t her battle, her family, or her promise. Tony needed to work it out for himself. She exhaled. “All right, I’ll rest in our room. Please come wake me when you get back.”
As he kissed her cheek, she saw something in his eyes, something 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.