“Why are you smiling?” Liz asked as her eyes opened.

“I was just thinking about that sexy neck of yours.” His fingers went to her collarbone and traced a winding path over her neck and down to her breast.

Liz reached for his hand. Momentarily, their palms touched and their fingers intertwined. “Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“One more question, and then I’ll drop it—I promise.”

He exhaled and laid his head on his pillow. “Go ahead.”

“How do I know that if you run into her in the future that you won’t still have feelings?”

“I don’t know. Some couples have this thing called trust. I realize I’m the one who needs to earn it back”—He lifted his head and allowed his lips to lightly trail over her neck. Breathlessly he whispered—“I will.”

“In Venice?”

Harry lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. “In Venice—what?”

“Did you want to be with her again? Did you sleep together—or anything?”

“No!” Harry pulled the covers back and abruptly left the bed. “Why are you on this kick? No! She was planning on meeting up with Rawlings.” Pacing nude by the bed, Harry lifted his arms. “I screwed up. All I can say is—I’m sorry.”

Liz moved to her knees and crawled to the edge of the bed. With her face lifted, she cooed, “I believe you. I can tell you’re upset. I’m sorry. It’s just that after I saw that picture of the two of you holding hands—well, I guess I needed to know.”

“You saw the picture? How?”

“Amber showed it to me.” She lifted herself on her knees, kissed his lips, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her breasts against his hard chest. “I believe you. If you say it’s over—it’s over.” She moved slightly away to look into his eyes. “Oh, please don’t tell Amber that you know I saw the picture. She just wanted me to be sure that I knew everything—so that I could make an informed decision.”

Her grin widened as she pulled Harry back down on the bed. When his head hit the pillow, she leaned over him. The warmth of her flattened breasts covered his wide chest as their skin united. Liz continued, “She told me not to tell you.” Her words came between butterfly kisses to Harry’s cheek and neck. “I probably shouldn’t have”—“but Agent Baldwin”—“now that I know”—“my decision is informed”—“and”—“I don’t want”—“to let you go”—“again!”

Harry flipped Liz onto her back. Before he could speak, she begged, “Please, Agent, can you show me how much you’ll miss me? Please?”

Harry couldn’t resist her begging—her flushed cheeks—her trusting gaze—or her disheveled hair. It was more than he could take. Any thought unrelated to becoming one, with the woman below him, momentarily slipped away.

Focus on things you can control .

—John Wooden

“Monsieur?”

Tony pulled his gaze away from Claire and looked toward Madeline. In her arms, she held a stack of towels and sheets.

“We need to clean her and cool her.”

Tony nodded and reached for a wash cloth. After going to the bathroom and saturating it with cool water, he folded it in thirds and gently placed it on Claire’s forehead. His soft tone resonated through their suddenly cavernous suite, “I know you haven’t been sleeping well.” Thunder shook the house. Tony continued, unfazed, “If you need to sleep now, it’s all right, but pretty soon, our little one will be here. He or she needs their mommy.” Tony fought the emotion boiling in his throat. “Claire, I need you. With you I’m someone I’m proud to be. P—please—don’t leave me.”

The pressure of someone’s hand fell on Tony’s shoulder. He was on the edge of a dark abyss. Fear pulled at him, inciting emotions he couldn’t control. Anthony Rawlings controlled everything and everyone. The sudden impotence filled his world with red. Other than Claire, he was surrounded by employees. Didn’t these people know anything? They didn’t address him without a title, and they didn’t touch him! Tony inhaled and looked toward the touch. His gaze met Madeline’s as she smiled a sad smile. Instantaneously, the red faded. Tony covered Madeline’s hand and relished her support.

Madeline said, “Monsieur, Madame el, she’s not gone—she’s resting. The island cure I gave her is helping her. She needs her strength for your baby. We must make her comfortable.”

Tony didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to do. It was an uneasy situation under normal circumstances. With Claire’s life on the line, Tony felt completely helpless. Swallowing his pride, he asked, “H—how can we make her comfortable?”

Madeline explained her plan. Once Tony approved, she put it into motion. First, she instructed Francis and Phil to carry a chaise lounge in from the lanai. Rain covered the floor when they opened the door and brought the long lounge into the bedroom. Madeline immediately dried the moisture from the floor and from the lounge cushions; then she proceeded to cover the chair in towels and sheets.

Phil and Francis went back to the hall and kept silent vigil, while Madeline and Tony removed Claire’s wet clothes. They cleaned, rinsed, and dried her with cloths and towels from the bathroom. Once she was dry, Tony gently lifted her to the lounge chair where they dressed her in a nightgown and covered her shivering body with a clean sheet. The chase lounge was much lower than a normal bed; however, since the mattress of their bed was saturated, it gave her a clean place to lie.

No longer did station matter. Madeline was no longer house staff or an employee—Tony willingly submitted to her control of the situation. If she told him to jump, it would be he who asked, how high? For the first time in his memory, Tony didn’t want power. He knew nothing about giving birth. Without a doctor, Madeline was their best bet. She was the dealer—she controlled the deck and had his full respect and attention.

As the sky darkened and night time came, Tony did the only thing he could. He sat by Claire with one hand on their unborn child. When he’d feel the baby move, he’d tell Madeline, “I felt something.” His other hand continually touched Claire. It may have been her hand, her cheek, or her forehead. He didn’t care where they connected—as long as they did.

Throughout the night, Claire’s pulse remained steady, and their baby continued to move. It wasn’t until dawn when Claire began to wake. At first, it was the incoherent mutterings of earlier. She pleaded, “Tony...no...gone...Tony...no...” Eventually, the pleadings morphed into tears. With each outburst, another piece of Tony’s heart broke. Claire was fighting a battle only she could see. He would’ve said, paid, or done anything to bring her relief—he couldn’t.

All he could do, was offer himself. Never leaving his wife’s side, Tony repeatedly wiped her tear coated cheeks with a soft handkerchief, and each time she’d mutter, in his calmest tone, he’d reassure, “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. No one is gone...” He didn’t know if she could hear his words; nevertheless, saying them brought a sense of comfort to their suite.

By the time the sun rose behind the still billowing clouds, Tony’s head rested quietly on the side of the chair. There hadn’t been a change in hours. He didn’t intend to fall asleep, but the rumbling of thunder, rhythm of rain, and constant in Claire’s condition allowed him to slip into a false sense of security.

Claire couldn’t remember where she was. Her last memory was of the suite in Iowa. The copper colored walls she remembered were gone; instead, the white woodwork and golden drapes of 2010 were back. The fear that infiltrated her thoughts and drained her world of color was the overwhelming sensation of isolation. Claire was, once again, alone. No longer did she wake to the sounds of her paradise. Birds no longer sang and the surf no longer roared. The only reoccurring noise was that of the beep. She didn’t need to look, to know why it occurred. Claire knew too well—the beep happened whenever the door to the rest of the world opened.