With blatant disregard for anyone else on the streets of Venice, Phil’s adrenaline-filled veins helped him maintain a full-out run. Some people cursed as he pushed past them, while others sent him hateful looks. None of it registered. The only image in his mind was that of Claire laying on the floor, and Chester reaching in the pocket of his jacket...

Phil didn’t stop to ride the elevator; instead, he took the stairs two and three at a time. By the time he reached the door of their suite, no one was outside. The hallway was empty and calm. Instinctively, he leaned his head against the door and listened. No sounds were registering from inside the room. All he could hear reverberating in his ears was his own heavy breathing and the sound of his pounding heartbeat. Slipping his key into the lock, he opened the door.

It took only a second for Phil to assess the scene. Claire was sitting on the sofa, her expression neither happy nor sad. It was a look he recognized—the one she wore when she was suppressing her feelings. From the doorway, Phil saw the back of a man’s head. Even before the blonde-headed man turned toward the sound of the opening door, Phil knew it was Harrison Baldwin. Phil wasn’t thinking about his movements; it wasn’t planned; nonetheless, as Baldwin stood, Phil found himself suddenly across the room and chest to chest with the younger man. The fear Phil felt for Claire and her child over the last few minutes came bubbling out. “Tell us what you want! How in the hell did you find her?”

“Hey, man”—Harry’s open hands came up in a commonly accepted sign of surrender—“I’m not the bad guy here. Claire’s in no danger from me.”

Phil’s volume decreased, yet his tone remained hard. “Then why are you here?”

Claire interjected, “Phil, Harry was just telling me an interesting story. Please”—she looked toward Phil—“please, let’s hear him out.” Then she added, “Together.”

She’d never seen such rage in Phil’s eyes. He’d told her of jobs he’d done, never with too much detail; however, at that moment, when he entered their suite, she saw military—special ops—private detective—and bodyguard—all rolled into one. It wasn’t that she’d ever questioned his ability to protect her, but at that moment, there was no room for doubt. Phil’s eyes stayed fixed on Harry as he stepped backwards toward Claire.

Despite Phil’s obvious displeasure, Claire believed he’d be as surprised as she at Harry’s news. Yes, Claire had the monopoly on hurt; that went without saying. Even so, Phil would definitely be surprised. Both men stared at one another. Finally, Claire broke the lingering silence, “Harry, why don’t you show Phil what you showed me? Show him the reason I finally opened the door.” She wanted Phil to know she hadn’t acted impulsively.

When Harry reached for his pocket, Claire felt Phil flinch. Reflexively, she placed her hand on his arm and whispered, “It’s all right. It’s not what you think.” The calmness of Claire’s voice released some of the tension from the suite; nevertheless, Claire sensed that if it was necessary, Phil was ready to pounce.

Harry opened his wallet and offered the contents for view. Phil stared for a moment, processing the sight before him. Inside the confines of the leather billfold was a badge. Phil turned questioningly to Claire and then back at the badge. Reaching for the wallet, he looked closer. The golden eagle, the woman with the scales of justice, and the words: Federal Bureau of Investigation. Next to the badge, in its own compartment, was a card which read: in bold letters—FBI with Harry’s picture and the name—Agent Harrison Baldwin.

Clearing his throat, Harry began again, “Mr. Roach, Claire’s been telling me what a wonderful job you’ve been doing keeping her safe. I’ll add that it’s taken a lot of time and manpower to locate the two of you. I applaud your abilities.”

Phil looked once again at Claire. His displeasure at this turn of events was evident in his voice. “Mr., or Agent, or whoever the hell you are—what do you want with her? Why are you utilizing federal manpower to locate her?”

“I can’t exactly divulge that information at this time.” Shifting slightly in his chair, Harry added, “To be honest, I shouldn’t even be divulging my position. It’s that we, the FBI, learned of your plans to check-out of Hotel Danieli tomorrow. After locating Claire, we don’t want to lose her again.”

Phil sat straighter. “I don’t believe that’s your choice. We’re leaving.”

“All I’m asking is that you”—his blue eyes softened with his plea—“Claire, remain in contact with me. I’d like to know your location and that you’re safe.”

Phil interjected, “She has been and will continue to be safe. Maybe the FBI should worry about things like terrorists and leave private citizens like Ms. Nichols alone.”

Ignoring Phil, Harry urged, “Please listen”—he leaned forward—“You and I—we—Claire—I’m worried about you. There’s reason to believe”—Harry shifted in his chair—“We have reason to believe that Rawlings will be looking for you. Currently, his resources are limited. We know that; however, there are rumors that Rawlings has funds outside the United States. If he accesses those funds, we can assume”—his icy blue eyes turned to Phil—“despite your best efforts, Mr. Roach, that Rawlings will locate Claire.”

Claire concentrated on her hands lying calmly in her lap. She didn’t want to make eye contact with either man; both knew her too well. When the silence became palpable, Claire took a deep breath, looked up, and green met blue. “So, Harry, did my sister send you?”

“No,” he answered truthfully. “She is worried and rightfully so. Claire, I wish you acted more concerned about Rawlings.”

“Did you receive help from your law enforcement friends?”

“Yes, but they are FBI, not California—”

“Were you ever employed by the California Bureau of Investigation?”

Harry looked down. “At one time.”

“SiJo—were you ever employed by SiJo?”

Harry’s eyes met hers. “Yes, and I knew Simon; he wasn’t only my sister’s fiance, he was my friend. This case has meaning to me!”

Claire’s jumble of emotions steadied. She knew Phil’s presence helped; nevertheless, she also realized she was once again facing someone who had lied to her on more than one occasion—someone she’d trusted. With her voice rising an octave, Claire asked, “Tell us, what else have you lied to me about in the past seven or eight months? I’m very curious. What about us? Was that a lie too? Was there any meaning there?”

Harry looked from Claire to Phil and back. “Claire”—Harry’s voice calmed—“perhaps this is something we could discuss in private?”

Placing her hand again on Phil’s arm, she replied, “I don’t intend to have that, or any other discussion with you in private. Please leave.”

“You’re in danger. You know that. The FBI wants to help you. Don’t be stupid and trust the wrong people.”

Claire stood. “Hmm”—straightening her shoulders and feeling the fire flash in her eyes, she replied—“Yes, I’ve definitely been stupid”—emphasizing his word—“in the past. I believe I’m finally learning from my mistakes. Goodbye, Agent Baldwin.”

Harry took a step toward her. “Claire.”

Phil quickly moved between them.

Harry continued speaking, “Listen to me—I didn’t call you stupid. It’s just that you have a blind spot when it comes to Rawlings. Even after everything he’s done.” Harry spoke quickly, “What I mean is that you never would have left, like you did, if there wasn’t some part of you who still feared him.” When Claire started to turn away, Harry reached for her hand. “Just give it some thought. Seriously, I don’t blame you for being upset with me, but I never kidnapped you, raped you, hurt—”