Claire held her breath as the small sentence surfaced:

 February 25, 1988, Nathaniel Rawlings and Catherine Marie London- license of marriage.

Claire stared at the screen... Catherine Marie London.

She wasn’t sure how long she stared; a minute, an hour, a day, maybe ten? Claire’s world once again swayed from its axis. Catherine is Marie! Marie is Catherine! What does that mean?

She closed her eyes and reviewed. The nausea from her early pregnancy returned. The stress at the bank was nothing compared to the mayhem in her mind. It meant Catherine killed Samuel and Amanda Rawls. It meant Tony paid Patrick Chester yearly for Catherine’s freedom. It meant Catherine loved Nathaniel. According to Tony, Nathaniel loved her, too.

Despite the damn gray contacts, Claire’s tears of fear, rage, and sadness swelled behind the pigmented disks. She didn’t want to believe the thoughts and theories flooding her mind. She loved Catherine. The woman sustained her during the time of Tony’s domination. Claire reassured herself: Catherine is protecting me again.

However, she had to wonder, was this truly protection?

Catherine knew Claire’s greatest fear – her biggest terror. She knew it was isolation. Catherine provided money – lots of money. However, suddenly Claire questioned – how was this kinder than thirteen days sequestered in her suite? She and her baby would have every need met. Yet, when all was said and done, Claire’s need for love and companionship would remain unsatisfied for the rest of her life.

She laid ten Swiss Francs on the counter and stepped out into the bustling cosmopolitan city. Her hotel was only blocks away.

Claire, no Isabelle, entered the Hotel d'Angleterre in a mental fog. Her mind whirled with new and old information. The concierge’s greeting caught her off guard. “Buon pomeriggio, Seniora Alexander. Senior Alexander e qui, ti aspetta.” (Good afternoon Mrs. Alexander, Mr. Alexander is waiting for you.)

Mr. Alexander? She thought. “Grazie, dove?” (Thank you, where?)

“Egli e nella vostra suite, seniora.” (In your suite, ma’am)

Claire nodded and tried to smile. Panic from years before bubbled from the depths of her soul. The past few months with Tony held no hint of domination, yet she knew it existed. And now, if he were upstairs in her suite, what did that mean? Did he think she’d left him for his money? Did Catherine tell him? Was this all just a set-up, a test? Had she just failed? Claire decided company would be beneficial, “Mi sembra di aver smarrito la mia chiave, potreste aiutarmi?” (I seem to have misplaced my key, could you help me?)

“Si, seniora.” The concierge accompanied Seniora Alexander to the third floor suite. As they rode the elevator in silence, Claire’s mind spun with questions. When the doors opened, anticipation prevailed. She prayed, Please let Tony be here, and let us work this out.

She foresaw anger. But she’d seen it before. Claire squared her shoulders and stiffened her neck. Once his impending tirade was complete, she’d explain. She wanted to face the man she’d just left.

The concierge inserted the key and penetrated the lock on the polished wooden door.

Before he pulled the opulent lever, the door opened. Instead of brown darkness she saw intense hazel. Flecks of gold shimmered within her husband’s gray-green eyes while his white hair lay casually over his forehead. Claire sighed as Phil beckoned her into the suite.

“Il mio amore!” (My love) He pulled her hand toward him; her body followed. Instantly his lips were on hers. She fought her urge to fight, knowing the concierge was watching their show.

Claire lifted her hands to Phil’s shoulders and pushed, “Lei mi sorprende.” (You surprise me)

In English, “Didn’t they tell you I was here? I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

The concierge stood faithfully near, in the open door. Phil immediately reached into his pocket, removed some Swiss Francs, and thanked him for his help. When the door closed Claire freed herself and retaliated, “They said Mr. Alexander was here, my husband. I didn’t know who to expect.”

“You seem disappointed?” Phil questioned. “I had to be your husband, to be allowed entry.”

Grasping her arm, he directed her to the main room. The doors of the balcony were open to the lake below. For moments they stood silently and watched the docks as yachts came and went. The hum of people below filled the silence as the sun made its way toward the Alps elongating the shadows below.

Claire’s mind tried unsuccessfully to prioritize her myriad of thoughts. After a time Phil’s arm surrounded her shoulders. She turned toward him; her words harsh, “The concierge is gone - the show is over.”

He removed his arm, “Did you complete your transaction?”

 “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“I had to get to you. I’m scheduled to return to the United States early tomorrow morning. I have an appointment with the ICPD. They want to discuss the disappearance of a woman I was hired to trail.” His eyes twinkled, “You know, there is a $100,000 reward!”

“So you’re here to turn me in?”

His hazel eyes closed, jaws clenched, and head shook. “No, Claire, I’m here to make sure you completed your little endeavor at the financial institution today and to set up a meeting to move you to your permanent residence. Where will that be?”

Claire’s neck straightened. She walked onto the balcony and peered over the wrought iron rail. Phil followed closely behind. His words were a mere whisper against the sounds of the blossoming nightlife below. “You know, the last time I followed you on to a balcony, you played me for a fool. Is that your intent tonight?”

Claire turned toward him. “You know it isn’t. Things have changed.”

“Some things.”

“In San Antonio I was protecting someone.”

“In San Antonio you out smarted me. I can’t tell you how much that impressed me.” He stepped closer. “Until that trip,” his breath bathed her cheeks, “I had preconceived ideas about you.”

Claire stood her ground and looked up into his eyes, “Preconceived?”

His gaze searched her contact covered eyes, “I researched you, you know?” She didn’t answer. “From the beginning of my assignment with Mr. Rawlings, I read all about Claire Rawlings Nichols and made assessments based on that research. I predetermined you to be this woman who tried to kill her multibillion dollar husband – a gold-digger. I assumed he hired me to keep an eye on you, to let him know if you were getting close. I assumed he was afraid you might try it again. Then I saw you for the first time; you were walking down that street in Palo Alto. The wind was blowing your hair.” He reached out, removed the dark wig, and loosened strands of her once again chestnut hair from the confines of the hair pins. She shook her head allowing the trusses to fall free. “I knew Mr. Rawlings wanted you, not because he was afraid. He wanted you. His insistence at knowing your every move proved he wasn’t willing to give you up. Then, you tricked me in San Antonio.”

He stepped away. Slowly Phil settled at the wrought iron table, leaving Claire against the rail as the glow of the setting sun framed her beautiful face. She smiled at his reference as he went on, “I learned that week, you were so much more than a beautiful woman. You’re smart, strong, sneaky, and conniving.”

“If I recall, you called me a bitch.”

A grin filled his face. “I assure you, it was meant as a compliment. I find those qualities very endearing.” He leaned forward, “I immediately became enthralled. From that moment, I’ve fought an intense desire to have you for myself.”

Claire lowered her eyes. Although she didn’t want to encourage him; she needed his help, “Thank you,” she said demurely.