Claire shrugged. “I don’t have a definitive number. What can I say?” She stepped toward him and reached for his cheek. Brushing it gently, she allowed the afternoon stubble to abrade the tips of her fingers. “You’re a wise man, and I’ve learned a lot from you. You should consider it an honor—imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“I think there are others who you’d be better to imitate.”

Kissing his lips, she lingered on her tip toes and whispered, “Right now, I’m going to lay down. When I wake, I’ll trust that you haven’t disappointed me.”

As she turned toward the bedroom, Tony seized her arm and pulled her back into his embrace. His sudden surge of power would’ve frightened her in the past. Today, she found it more than mildly erotic. “Tell me”—his dark stare intensified with each second—“why it took an electronic lock to hold you captive and mere words are doing it to me? Because I’ll be honest, I want to get in that boat and talk to a pilot. I promised to look after Sophia. She has no idea what kind of a woman her birth mother is capable of being. I’m the only one who can explain, yet with a few words from these beautiful lips”—his finger gently traced her lips—“I’m again helpless.”

“Because you love me, and as committed as you are to Sophia, which is honorable, you’re more committed to me and our child.”

Tony nodded. “I do love you—more than life itself; nevertheless, I’m going for that walk. I feel trapped, and at this moment, I need to remind myself Catherine is the one responsible—not you. As much as I love you”—he seized her shoulders—“and never forget that I do; right now, I’m not fond of the control you seem to have.”

Claire nodded. She wanted honesty. That didn’t mean she liked everything she heard—she didn’t; however, wasn’t that the risk with honesty—accepting the truth no matter how it made you feel?

Besides, deep down, Claire completely understood his position—she’d been there herself.

Phil eased into the art gallery behind a twenty-something couple. It was the third one he’d visited in Davenport this afternoon. It looked similar to the others—art work highlighted by spot lights and three dimensional art showcased on stands. It wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t even sure how to pretend he liked any of it. Most of it didn’t look like art to him anyway. Who decided what constituted art, Phil wanted to know.

As he walked slowly, pretending to appreciate the paintings which looked like something a five-year-old child could create, he saw Sophia out of the corner of his eye. She was moving from painting to painting, taking a painstaking amount of time to devour each piece. This was the third Friday in a row she’d gone to Davenport to visit the galleries. Once he found her, his directive was clear; text Ms. London and let her know Sophia’s location.

Stepping into a side hallway, Phil did as he’d been told. He texted his employer:

“MRS BURKE IS AT THE JOHN BLOOM GALLERY ON 12TH STREET.”

Next, he stood back and waited. As he stared at the canvas before him, he listened to two women discuss the use of color and shadowing. There were many things Phil knew. He could probably teach a course on surveillance—technology was his passion—he loved learning about new devices to make his job easier and more precise. When it came to computers, he could talk programming and hardware with the best of them; however, when it came to colors and shadowing, he didn’t have a clue!

His phone vibrated. The text was simple. His job for the day was done. Phil couldn’t have been happier. Trailing Claire had been a cake walk. Following Sophia was brain numbing. She spent most of her time at home. When she did venture out, it was either with her husband or to places like this. The gallery was filling with patrons—apparently, his lack of interest wasn’t shared by others. As he made his way toward the door, a waiter stopped him with a tray of champagne in tall glasses. He asked if Phil would like a glass. With the refusal on the tip of his tongue, he saw Catherine enter the gallery. She looked different than she had at any of their meetings. Her hair was shorter, her clothes stylish, and her face made-up.

Curiosity was his new downfall. It’s what had pulled him into Claire’s world. Many times, when Rawlings told him to end surveillance for the day, Phil would continue. Now, nodding and smiling at the waiter, he lifted a flute from the tray, worked his way into a crowd, and watched. It wasn’t the art that interested him—it was the woman who had been so determined to rid herself of Claire. Phil was anxious to learn more about the woman who thought she employed him.