“You realize if your assistant accompanies you to any more events the papers will start to speculate.”

What? He hadn’t even thought about taking Patricia. Yes, she’d accompanied him to a few events, but it was totally platonic and, at the time, an outing of convenience. “I can assure you that speculating would be all they could do. She’s only accompanied me a few times, and they were all business-related. There’s nothing to speculate about. I’ll be taking someone else.”

“Would you like to ask this lady, or would you like me to call her?”

He had to stifle the chuckle that rumbled in the back of his throat. Ask? He had no intentions of asking this person. This person didn’t have a choice in the matter—or any matter. After the first few glitches, she seemed to have come to terms with this reality. This outing would be another duty she could fulfill. Anthony was growing tired of the parade of women on his arm. He had a lot of deals in the works, and listening to some woman prattle small talk didn’t sound appealing. If he took Claire, he could avoid the whole wine-and-dine thing. They would simply attend the symphony and come home. It was much simpler.

“No, I don’t need you to call.”

“Mr. Rawlings, I’ll need a name.”

Of course she would. “Her name is Claire Nichols. She’s from Atlanta.”

Shelly didn’t speak.

“Did you get that?”

“I did, sir. Is there more?”

“No. That’s all that needs to be released.”

“Perhaps you’d like me to do some research and verify that there isn’t a history that could negatively affect you?”

“No.” He sat taller. “There’s no history. If that’s all, I have work to do.”

“Mr. Rawlings, can you please spell Nichols for me?”

Anthony gripped the receiver. “N-I-C-H-O-L-S.” He tried to soften his tone. After all, Shelly was paid very well to maintain his reputation. He’d never before turned down her help in assuring its untarnished veneer. He explained, “I’ve already had her investigated.” Sighing. “You know me, Shelly. I wouldn’t take that risk; however, she’s not the type of woman I normally see. The whole public thing is new to her. I don’t want her getting unwanted publicity.”

Shelly exhaled. “Yes, I can imagine that would be difficult. Very well, her name and hometown will be all the information that I release. Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. That’s all I have at the moment.”

“Very well.” He hung up the receiver. Shit! Was that the right call? Rolling his mouse over the mouse pad, Anthony Rawlings’ spreadsheets came back to life. A committee had worked days—perhaps weeks—compiling all the data; yet he wasn’t seeing the numbers. No, he was seeing the woman back at the estate.

In the beginning, Anthony worked to make her a faceless person—perhaps like an employee at a business he was about to close. He told himself that she was nothing to him. Allowing Claire to pay her family’s debt was not Nathaniel’s original plan; however, Anthony reasoned, that some fates were worse than death. Catherine disagreed—at first—but she came around, and although he valued her opinion, Anthony’s money propelled their plan. He’d do whatever he damn well wanted. He saw by the way Catherine pursed her lips and stared, that she wasn’t pleased with his decision, but when it came to this matter Anthony wouldn’t budge—Claire was different.

Truly, it was ironic that he’d made his case—his basis for his decision—based on the fact that she was unique, when he continually told himself she wasn’t special. That was why he wanted to take her to the symphony—because she wasn’t special. He wouldn’t need to listen to her small talk, although he knew for a fact that Claire liked to talk! He wouldn’t need to do anything that was expected on a date. Anthony could do whatever he wanted—this wasn’t a date!

This outing would be a test. He squared his shoulders and dialed Catherine’s cell number on his private cell phone. She answered after only a few rings. “Yes, Anton?” Obviously, she was alone. In the company of others, she maintained a more formal appearance.

“Have Claire ready by 6:00 PM. She’s accompanying me to the symphony in Davenport.”

“Excuse me?”

Anthony slowed his words. “Did I stutter?”

“I just think I misunderstood you. I’m not sure she’s ready for this. Do you realize what could happen if—”

“Then make sure she’s ready and that nothing happens. I’m not in this alone.”

“I was not in favor—”

“But,” he paused, “you’ve supported my decision. I believe the word is accomplice.”

Catherine’s tone hardened. “I’ll have her ready.”

“Six PM, there’s a cocktail reception at 7:00 PM, and the symphony begins at 8:00 PM. Eric will be driving us in the limousine.”

“Anton, I’ll prepare her, but you must be sure she—”

“Do you doubt my control?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Her tone changed. “Mr. Rawlings, she’ll be ready.”

He placed his cell phone back in his pocket and once again concentrated on the report before him.

* * *

Anthony looked at his watch—5:52 PM—as he stood near the front door and replied to the text message that had just come across the screen of his iPhone. Eric was in front of the house with the limousine. Just as Anthony was about to hit SEND, he heard a cough from the top of the stairs. Looking up, he saw Catherine whisper something into Claire’s ear, just before Claire began to descend. He scanned her figure from head to toe. Anthony liked her hair style. It was up, with curls hanging down, accentuating her slender neck. The dress she wore looked like it had been made especially for her petite frame. He also saw her heels peeking out from the bottom of her skirt with each step. She definitely looked the part—a far cry from the woman in jeans and tennis shoes at the Red Wing, the one he’d seen a few months ago.

He had a fleeting thought about Claire’s public behavior; however, as he watched his acquisition gracefully approach, his concern evaporated into an aura that had enveloped the foyer. It felt nothing like the women who usually accompanied him. They had a confidence—no, arrogance—that surrounded them like a cloud of perfume. Claire’s semblance was different. She had to know how beautiful she looked, yet he saw the question in her eyes. He’d seen it before. Claire wasn’t contemplating her escape; she was seeking his approval.

A split second before his words of approval left his lips, he saw Catherine. After their discussion earlier, he questioned whether she would do her part to make this happen. Anthony turned from Claire and with a satisfied grin, bowed toward Catherine. “My dear Catherine, you’ve outdone yourself. You’re an artist.”

He saw the smirk in her eyes. Oh, if they were alone, he was sure Catherine would let him know exactly what she’d done to prepare Claire, not to mention what she thought of this outing; instead, she replied, “Mr. Rawlings, an artist is only as good as her canvas. You’re accompanying a beautiful canvas.”

“Or, should we say,” he smirked, “she’s accompanying me?” Turning back to Claire, he said, “We must go; Eric’s waiting.”

Claire didn’t respond other than to nod. When Anthony offered his arm, she dutifully placed her small hand appropriately and walked with him to the limousine. Eric stood ready and opened their door. As they neared, Claire hesitated. What was she thinking? Many times her feelings were transparent; however, when he looked down at her, dressed, styled, and painted to perfection, he found it intriguing that he couldn’t read her thoughts. Anthony motioned toward the open door, and once again, Claire nodded and eased herself inside.

After the car began moving, Anthony asked, “Have you ever ridden in a limousine before?” He knew the truth; she’d been in a limousine in Atlanta, as well as in Iowa. Anthony doubted she remembered either of those times—just as well.

“No, I haven’t.” She turned back toward him. “Anthony?”

Before she could continue, his phone vibrated. He held up a finger and she pressed her lips together. The call was from Tom, a friend as well as one of his legal staff. Before long, Anthony was in a full-out discussion about a company in Rhode Island. Thankfully, he could access some of the documents from his iPad. It wasn’t until he sensed the car slow and turn, that he even realized how close they were or how much time had passed. If this had been a date, he never would have gotten so much accomplished. Smiling at his productivity, Anthony turned off his iPad, put his phone away, and turned toward Claire. “Has Catherine prepared your behavior for this evening as well as she has your appearance?”

Her eyes widened as she turned from the window to face him. “She’s given me her advice,” Claire answered. “But I’d feel better if I heard yours.”

He liked her respectful tone. “Very well, when we arrive there’ll probably be photographers. Don’t act surprised or shocked by the attention. Just flash a beautiful smile and radiate confidence. Stay next to me at all times. There’ll be reporters who’ll try to learn your identity. I have a publicist who’ll know the time to release any necessary information. That is not you. I’ll do most of the talking; however, common sense will need to be with you. If spoken to, you will respond, but do not share information that is privileged. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“I’ve been asked to attend this event because of a donation I made to the Quad City Symphony and the Support the Arts Foundation. Have you ever been to a symphony before?”

“No.”

“The symphony is a delightful evening. I believe you’ll enjoy the music. This conductor is incredibly talented.”

“Thank you, Anthony, for allowing me to join you this evening.”

“I admit you’ve learned your lessons well. Now it’s time to see if you can continue to follow the rules outside the boundaries of my estate.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Anthony reached for Claire’s chin, turned it toward him, and slowed his words. “You will succeed. Failure in a public setting is not an option.”

He locked his eyes on hers and waited for an appropriate response. It didn’t take long. “Yes, Anthony. I will continue to follow your rules.”

“I assume you’re currently following all of my rules?” He lifted a brow.

Claire nodded as her cheeks flushed.

“We can investigate that later,” Anthony taunted as he placed his hand on her thigh.

When he moved his hand upward, she whispered, “I am.”

He already knew the answer. First, she didn’t own any panties, and as he helped her into the car, he’d allowed his hand to graze her firm behind. If there’d been anything under the beaded fabric, he would’ve known. He only mentioned his rule as a reminder of his authority. Anthony knew from Catherine that his forbiddance of undergarments continued to make Claire uncomfortable. He wanted Claire to remember as she interacted with strangers that he controlled everything. There was nothing he couldn’t do to her, or make her do. Exposing her in public with absolutely nothing under her expensive dress reinforced his stance.

When the car slowed and stopped, Anthony whispered, “Wait for Eric. He’ll open the door and assist you in getting out. I’ll be right behind you, and we’ll enter the theater together.”

As he glanced out the limousine’s window, Anthony realized that he’d underestimated the importance of this event. It may be only Davenport, Iowa, but the sidewalk was roped off and cluttered with reporters. If Claire chose to stand before them and make a public announcement about kidnapping, even he might not be able to manage damage control.

Although he was glad that he’d just reminded Claire of his rules, he worried if it had been enough. He didn’t have time to discuss the consequences of failure. As soon as they were out of the car, Anthony put his hand in the small of her back and directed her away from the reporters. The contact served as her reminder—her warning. By the time they reached the second level and cocktails, people were coming from every direction.

It was as he handed Claire a glass of champagne that his anxiety began to wane. He saw in her eyes—those green eyes—her unfulfilled need for his approval. This time, he smiled and whispered in her ear, “You are truly lovely tonight.” Instantaneously, he knew that Claire wouldn’t disappoint him. She wouldn’t escape or make a public announcement. It wasn’t her words; she hadn’t spoken. It was her countenance—he just knew. Each time he introduced her or she spoke, she impressed him with her performance. When the lights flashed, he guided her to their private box. It was a place where he’d sat many times—just a box; nonetheless, Claire scanned the auditorium like a child surveying the tree on Christmas morning.