words had him wondering. They had him curious.
Changed? What exactly did she mean by that? Had she grown a conscience? Or had she, too, at odd times over the past decade, found herself wondering where he was, what he was doing, if he was happy?
She’d been the only woman who’d ever made him fall so hard and fast. Love at first sight? Not exactly, but damned close. Ethan shoved a hand through his hair in disgust and sipped his coffee. The usually mild blend seemed as bitter as his mood. Well, whatever the reason for her call, he wasn’t about to find himself in the same room as Claire Mayfield again.
It wasn’t like him to avoid confrontation. Claire, of course, had a way of making him do things that were out of character. Like marrying her after only a handful of dates. Like seeking a divorce mere days after making what he’d thought would be a lifetime commitment.
I, Ethan James Seaver, take thee, Claire Anne Mayfield, as my lawfully wedded wife…
Even though he didn’t want to remember, he was tugged back in time. He’d been twenty-six, determined to take on the world even though he’d been a mere security guard working second shift at the Mayfield corporate headquarters in Chicago. The family-owned company manufactured everything from toothpaste to pharmaceuticals with operations in seventeen countries around the globe. Claire had been twenty-one, reserved to the point of shyness. She’d been vulnerable, delicate, the kind of woman a man felt he needed to protect.
And she’d been beautiful.
Her hair had hung nearly to her waist, a dark veil of sorts behind which she’d seemed to hide. Once they’d properly met it had been his habit to push it away from her face and tuck it behind her ears so that he could see her better. The first time he’d done it, her eyes had grown wide. Then she’d smiled slowly and he’d felt the earth shift under his feet. She was the only woman who’d ever had that effect on him. He told himself he didn’t miss that feeling of being out of control, that feeling of being…lost.
Claire had been doing an internship in the marketing department at Mayfield that summer. Each day, she’d left work at precisely five-thirty—the same time that Ethan took his dinner break in the employees’ cafeteria. She’d always stopped in for a bottle of water to drink on the drive home. At first, Ethan hadn’t known who Claire was, not that her identity would have mattered much or ended the attraction. He might have grown up poor on Chicago’s south side, but even back then he’d had no shortage of confidence, no dearth of pride.
He’d never considered that he might not be “good enough” for her. What did it matter that his diploma had come from a community college rather than the Ivy League? What did it matter that her family’s name regularly appeared in the newspaper, announcing Mayfield’s many innovations and triumphs, whereas the only time the Seaver name had made the Sun-Times or Tribune it had been in the obituaries?
Everett Daniel Seaver, beloved husband of Mary, doting father of Ethan, Michael and James, died on Monday as the result of a motorcycle accident. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the family to cover funeral expenses.
Ethan had been in elementary school and, at eleven, the oldest. His father had held a low-paying job. He’d had no life insurance, no savings put away. He’d left behind a heap of credit-card debt and a devastated wife who had barely managed to keep their family intact. In fact, for a little while Mary Seaver had been so broken that she hadn’t managed at all. Ethan still remembered the confusion, the fear he and his brothers had experienced when the authorities had come to take them to foster care.
He’d been determined not to repeat his father’s mistakes. He’d planned to make something of himself. In fact, he’d considered himself well on his way with a college degree under his belt and a growing bank account with which he planned to start his own business. So, after a week of his polite nods and her sidelong glances, he’d asked Claire for her telephone number. She’d blushed as she’d written it out on a paper napkin for him.
Their first date, if it could be called a date since it had occurred during his forty-five-minute dinner break, had ended with a polite handshake while she’d waited for her father’s driver to arrive at Mayfield’s front entrance. He could still recall the way her slim fingers had brushed against his rough palm as she’d pulled away. He’d never been so turned on in all his life.
The second date had ended with a brief kiss that nonetheless had heated his blood from simmering to a rolling boil and had made him desperate for much, much more. Barely a month afterward he’d asked her to marry him. It wasn’t until later that he’d realized Claire actually had been the one to bring up the subject of matrimony.
Memories he’d long kept buried resurrected themselves now. He recalled the way she’d looked during their hasty Las Vegas wedding—small, delicate, her dark hair twisted into a clever knot at the back of her head that kept it away from her face. Her gold-flecked brown eyes had been luminous.
She hadn’t worn the traditional bridal gown, but a simple suit whose pencil skirt tapered to the knee. It had been white, a fitting color he’d discovered later when they’d been alone in their hotel room, consummating the vows they’d just spoken. For a brief time, he’d counted himself the luckiest man in the world and he’d looked forward to building a future together.
…Till death us do part.
The words rang in Ethan’s head and snapped him back to the present. He scrubbed a hand over his face. A fool, that was what he’d been. Played from beginning to end by someone who might have been innocent but had been no novice at getting what she’d wanted.
He’d let himself be taken in by her slow smile and wide eyes. But Claire hadn’t loved him. She hadn’t planned to stay married to him, he’d learned soon enough. Ethan had been a means to an end, a payback, according to her father, who had arrived at their hotel suite late the following day.
Sumner Mayfield had come to take her home. He’d pulled her aside. Words had been spoken. Ethan had thought he heard Claire’s mother mentioned. Then Claire had turned, smiled sadly.
“I have to go.”
“Don’t leave, Claire.” Something had told Ethan that if she went now, she wouldn’t be back.
“Think about your mother,” her father said. Ethan watched her swallow and stifle a sob. Then she fled to the bedroom where the sheets were still warm from their lovemaking.
In the sitting area Sumner Mayfield explained his daughter’s “rash” behavior to a thunderstruck Ethan.
“I’m afraid she’s not happy with her fiancé right now.”
“Fiancé?” The word had all but choked Ethan when he uttered it. No. The man was mistaken. He had to be. “She’s not engaged.”
“I’m sorry, son,” Sumner said. “His name is Ashton Beaumont. They’ve known each other for years. Our families have always been close.”
“Ashton Beaumont,” he mumbled.
“Yes. Perhaps you’ve heard of his father. Rolland Beaumont owns a few dozen television and radio stations around the country. Ashton is being primed to take over after his father’s retirement in a few years.”
“I’ve heard of the Beaumonts.” And, while Ethan had always considered himself any man’s equal, he knew a paralyzing moment of self-doubt and insecurity. Later, as much as for her lies, he’d resented Claire for that. “So,
