“Why, Anton, it was in your box of confessions.”

Tony stared in utter shock and disbelief. Claire wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen his facade shatter as quickly. Though he remained still, she imagined him scurrying to pick-up the pieces of his usually intact veneer. His voice gained strength with each syllable. “I assure you, I have no idea what you are saying.”

“The information you sent me in prison.”

Before they could continue, a waiter appeared beside their table with menus. Placing the binders in front of each, he asked if they were interested in hearing about the specials. Concurrently, they answered, “No.” The waiter apologized for the interruption and meekly backed away from the table. Tony reached for the leather folder; his fingertips blanched, as he squeezed the helpless menu.

It didn’t make sense. The writing on the note was his, as was the writing on the photos. Although Claire was reasonably certain he’d ended this conversation, she decided to go ahead and ask the question screaming in her head, “Are you saying you didn’t send me a box of information?”

He didn’t need to answer; his expression and body language spoke louder than words. Nonetheless, he managed to articulate, “I can assure you, I did not send you anything while you were in prison.” Continuing to regulate his external calm, he added, “And, speaking of prison, congratulations on your early release.”

Sarcasm dripped from his final statement; however, Claire was still mulling-over his first declaration. If he didn’t send me that information, then who did? When his words registered she decided to dial down the conversation. Yes, her old instincts were guiding her through this mine field. Those instincts saved her life in the past. He’d changed the subject, and experience warned her to take heed. Any discussion of his box or his alternate persona would need to wait. “Thank you, I promise, I was as surprised as you must have been.”

He harrumphed as he took another drink of his wine. The contents disappeared. He poured himself another glass. “That, my dear, is debatable.”

Claire smiled; he may have manipulated her plans. Nonetheless, she’d just acquired invaluable information. He didn’t send the box; he hadn’t known she knew about his past or his vendetta, and she could obviously influence his demeanor. That knowledge seemed more powerful today than it’d ever been. She looked at the menu and discussed the entrees she found appetizing.

Truthfully, neither of them possessed much of an appetite; nevertheless, the dinner progressed. As expected, Tony ordered their meals. However, as he spoke to the waiter, in French, Claire smiled when he ordered the selection she’d suggested.

After the waiter left, Tony turned to Claire and continuing in French and said, “I see you have broadened your language portfolio.”

Also in French, she replied, “Yes, I decided to capitalize on my gift of time.”

He grinned and shook his head ever so slightly. Now in English, “Claire, how is your headache?”

“I believe the wine is helping.”

“That’s good. Tell me about San Antonio.”

Momentarily, she savored the robust thick liquid that contained a hint of sweet floral flavor, and contemplated her response. If his obvious knowledge of her whereabouts was supposed to threaten or alarm her, she disappointed him again. Meeting his gaze she smiled, “It was lovely. I’ve always enjoyed sunshine and warmth.”

“Yes, I can see your lovely tan.”

Maybe, he could make her smile. Yes, there was a twinge of concern about upsetting him. But even empty, they were in a public place. She knew he wouldn’t do or say anything harmful while in the sight of others. Truthfully, she felt a new sense of empowerment. If it had been present before, she’d been too close to see it. But now, Claire sensed her ability to affect him. She could upset him and she could calm him. Few people held that power. Perhaps, others did, but were not brave, or stupid, enough to try.

Claire chose to use the word brave.

When Claire entered her condo she heard unexpected noises resonating from the den. Making her way down the hall, she found Harry lounging on the small loveseat watching a baseball game. The way his long legs hung off the end of the sofa added to the comedy of the scene. Especially considering the large comfortable couch and five times larger television in his condo. “Is your television broken?”

He turned to speak. Her appearance momentarily muted him. Eventually he managed to answer, “No, it’s fine. I just thought you might need some moral support.”

“Tell me you aren’t here to be sure I came home.”

Harry stood and approached one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. “Not like you may think. I really wanted to be sure you were all right. I know I haven’t asked directly. And I don’t need to know anything you don’t want to say, but I get the feeling there were times in your past, your ex-husband didn’t treat you well.” He tried to read her eyes; they were changing into that stoic noncommittal stare. “Claire, stop the pretense.”

She backed away from his sudden harsh tone. “Excuse me? I haven’t said a word.”

“No, you haven’t. But you’re doing what you always do. You’re hiding behind some mask of indifference.”

The night was overwhelming. Her head did hurt. She’d just left dinner with Tony and was suddenly in another confrontation. Claire honestly wasn’t up for more conflict. Plus, his word: mask. That’s what she used to tell herself to wear with Tony. Did she really wear one with Harry too?