felt more sensible in her life.
Sensible. Yet here she was, sitting cross-legged on the bare floor and laughing like a happily medicated root canal patient because Ethan had essentially been right in her backyard all these years. Not only that, but he’d been providing surveillance and other high-end services to some of his ex-father-in-law’s competitors. The payback quotient was subtle but there.
Of course, even a decade ago Ethan’s dogged determination had been obvious. It was one of the qualities she had admired, respected. Claire had never met anyone quite like him in her sheltered life. He’d come from a modest background and yet words like “no” and “I can’t” hadn’t been part of his vocabulary. He’d been so driven, so purposeful. So…disappointing.
She rested the chilled bottle of water against her forehead, mirth and pride subsiding as anger sneaked in.
She had little doubt where Ethan had gotten the start-up capital for his business. She’d watched her father write out the postdated check. A very hefty sum paid to the order of Ethan Seaver on one condition: he needed to go away quickly and quietly.
And he had.
The one person Claire had counted on to be immune to her father’s high-handed bullying, the one person she had assumed would be too proud to take the powerful Sumner Mayfield’s money, had done just that, consenting to a divorce, keeping their marriage hush-hush, disappearing.
She swatted her anger aside. It didn’t matter. These days, Claire was counting on herself. She should have done that back then too, instead of involving a third party in her sticky family dynamics.
Staring at Ethan’s photograph, she swore his gaze held the same amount of accusation it had the last time they’d been face-to-face.
“Why in the hell did you marry me, Claire?” The demand had sounded almost like a challenge.
“I am sorry, Ethan,” she murmured now to the image on the computer screen.
That doesn’t count, honey.
Claire could almost hear Belle saying it, the words clipped with her British accent. She could almost hear Simone’s laughter trill. How she missed them. She had other friends, of course, but none in whom she had confided her shameful secret. That made the bond they shared all the more special.
Then, as if she had conjured up the pair, her computer chimed, signaling an e-mail had just been received. Claire clicked on her mailbox and discovered two, both delivered to the group account they had set up for their correspondence. The first message was from Simone and had come in several hours earlier. The latest was from Belle and apparently was in response to Simone’s. The subject lines didn’t bode well: diary missing.
Claire clicked on Simone’s e-mail first:
Hullo, ladies. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I seem to have lost the journal I kept during our trip.
Claire sucked in a breath. Simone had kept rather detailed notes of their travels, their burgeoning friend ship and finally their secrets and what they planned to do about them. Now the diary was gone, apparently dropped at the airport in her rush to catch a taxi. It made Claire a little queasy to think someone might be reading it. She clicked open Belle’s response:
Oh, Simone! What a shame about your diary. I know how hard you worked on it. Will you be able to put together your article without it?”
Simone worked for Girl Talk magazine.
If you need any details, I’ve got the stuff I wrote for my reports that you can have. As for anyone connecting us with it, I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s most likely in some airport waste compactor by now.
Probably, Claire thought. Even if someone had opened it, the beginning pages were likely bland enough to quell any interest.
Belle had continued,
Now for my news…
Claire blinked at the screen. And here she’d thought she had been working at a fast pace. But then, Belle never could stand to have anyone else in the lead. Already she’d left her husband, Ivo, moving out of his upscale Belgravia town house, and was living in the flat at Camden Lock she’d kept since before her marriage. And she’d cut her hair, changed her look. She’d attached a photograph that had Claire smiling. Belle’s trademark blonde locks were gone, clipped off into a softly layered short ’do that complemented her lovely face.
Claire wrote back to Simone first:
Don’t beat yourself up about this. It’s disappointing and frustrating, but I can’t imagine it will cause any problems for any of us.
She added a one-sided happy face. Then she wrote:
By the way, I moved out, too. I’m in my new apartment right now, sitting on the floor since I have no furniture yet. Not even a comfortable bed. Reminds me of our trip.
This time the smiley face icon was all teeth.
And, drum roll please. I’ve found my ex. Turns out he’s made quite a name for himself. I’m attaching a URL to his Web site.
Send.
To her delight, Belle answered just as Claire was getting ready to log off. Apparently she was still online:
Hmm. A prime specimen, that one. I can see why you were attracted to him.
Claire ignored the tug of lust that lingered when she recalled his face…and remembered his very capable hands. She wrote back:
Wish me luck. I’m going to call him first thing tomorrow morning.
You’re calling him? Why not a face-to-face meeting? He deserves that much, don’t you think?
Belle’s query nipped at Claire’s conscience.
Yes, but I think I need to call first. He lives in another state now, a good six hours’ drive.
A day’s ride away. Take your bike.
Belle teased in return.
A little chilly for that here in November.
Freezing rain tapped at the windows as she typed the words.
Fine. Take a car then. But go.
Belle could be relentless.
Claire promised:
I will. Eventually. For now, a phone call.
Okay. For now. Let us know how it goes. It must be late in Chicago.
Nearly two in the morning.
Better get your beauty sleep then. Not that you need it. Good night, love.
‘Night.
Claire jotted down Ethan’s office number from the Web site and then turned off the computer. First thing in the morning, she vowed silently, she would speak to him.
Ethan Seaver believed
