Catherine entered, looked around, and shook her head. “Ms. Claire, let me get that cleaned up. You will end up cutting yourself.”

“I believe I already have.” Claire held out her hand. Very tenderly, Catherine led Claire into the bathroom and removed the crystal. She then cleaned and bandaged her hand. When they returned to the suite, the evidence of the previous night was gone. The suite was clean, no overturned lamps, no scarves, and the vase was gone. Sitting on the table was a tray of food.

Claire walked to the table and obediently ate her breakfast, alone. An overwhelming feeling of desperation filled her. She was trapped. She was all alone. And she didn’t know what to do. She decided to take a shower, and hopefully, she would think of something.

  The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool. —Stephen King

 Chapter 2

Five days earlier . . .

The day filled with meetings served its purpose. First he met with the station manager, then endless hours with the sales team listening to budget reports followed by proposals. Truthfully, these meetings didn’t usually warrant the attendance of the parent corporation’s CEO. Judging by the way WKPZ’s executives fell over themselves to justify every expense and augment every proposal, they demonstrated that they at least had the common sense to recognize this visit as extraordinary. Truth be known, Anthony Rawlings didn’t give a damn about the two-bit television station. It already served its purpose. If he closed it tomorrow, no sleep would be lost. However, the meetings showed him that the station is profitable. And given the current state of the economy, profitable is good. When he returned to the main office, he would assign a team to investigate an impending sale. Wouldn’t that be great if he could reap both personal and monetary benefits from this acquired station?

After the conclusion of the meetings, he agreed to a social outing with the new station personnel director and his assistant. If they knew anything about him, they would realize this was completely out of character. His acceptance of their invitation came with one stipulation: they must go to the Red Wing. He’d heard it had the best fried green tomatoes in Atlanta, Georgia.

Thankfully, the two associates had families that were awaiting their return. After sipping a Red Wing signature beer and consuming a portion of the fried green tomato appetizer, Mr. Rawlings insisted that they take leave and spend time with their loved ones. He thanked them for their devotion to WKPZ and listened attentively to their personnel plans. However, if he were questioned under oath, he wouldn’t be able to recall one word they said. His attention was focused on the brown-haired, green-eyed bartender. She was scheduled to start her shift at four o’clock, and he knew she would be here. As soon as his associates left, he texted his driver and informed him that he would be at the Red Wing until late. Then he casually walked to an empty stool at the end of the bar, near the wall. It reduced the probability of anyone striking up a conversation by 50 percent. He would have preferred 100, but damn, you can’t have everything. The only object of his conversation and attention would be the smiling young woman on the other side of the shiny, smooth bar.

“Hey, handsome, do you need another beer?”

Anthony lifted his gaze to look into her emerald eyes. He had a handsome face and knew after many years of practice exactly how to use it. However, at this moment, his smile was genuine. She was finally talking to him. It had been a long lonely road, but the destination was finally in sight. “Thank you, I would.”

Sizing up the remaining contents of his glass, she asked, “Is that one of our custom wheats?”

“Well, yes, it is the La bière Blanche.” She smiled sweetly and hurried away to fill him another glass. When she returned with the amber liquid, she efficiently removed his empty one and replaced it with the full glass and a fresh Red Wing napkin. “I would like to start a tab.”

“That would be great. If I could have your credit card, I will start one right away.”

With that, Anthony opened his Armani jacket and removed his wallet from the inside pocket. He had so many things he wanted to say, but he had all night. Her shift wouldn’t end until ten, and he planned to spend the evening sitting right there. Handing her his platinum Visa, he watched as she read the name.

“Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. I’ll return this to you in a minute.” Her smile or expression never wavered. She turned away toward the cash register. Anthony sat back against the chair with a brief moment of satisfaction. She didn’t know who he was. This was perfect.

During the next few hours, Anthony observed as Claire chatted and flirted with customer after customer. Her attentions were friendly and attentive, but never overtly personal. Some of the customers were greeted by name as they found their way to an empty seat. Many knew her name before she could introduce herself. Anthony assumed they were regulars. Both men and women appeared pleased to have her wait on them.

She moved nonstop, clearing away empty glasses and plates and replacing them with more of the same or checks in need of payment. She wiped the shiny wooden bar and smiled even when a comment deserved a strong retort. After so much time watching her from afar, being this close gave him more of a rush than securing a multimillion-dollar deal. Perhaps it was the knowledge of what is to come.

After tending bar on and off again for years, Claire Nichols knew how to read people. More importantly, she genuinely liked the little quirks that made them real. For instance, take Mr. Handsome sipping his La bière Blanche. He’s been watching her for the last few hours like a lion sizing up its prey. She judged that he was at least ten years her senior but hid his age well behind that perfect smile, dark wavy styled hair, and amazing brown, almost-black eyes. Claire smiled a secretive smile. She was watching him too.

“What time do you get off?” His voice resonated strong and husky through the noise of the bar, patrons, and music.

“Now, Anthony, isn’t that what you said your name is?” Claire’s chatty work tone contained the slightest of a Southern drawl, the kind of accent you pick up from being around it so much. Her roots in Indiana with a mother that taught English wouldn’t allow her to drag out those syllables too far, unless on purpose.

Smiling a devilish grin and flashing those sensual eyes, he met her gaze. “Yes, that’s correct. And if I recall, your name is Claire.”

“And even though I’m flattered, I don’t usually see my customers outside this esteemed establishment.”

“All right, what time do you get off? Perhaps we could sit in one of those booths, right here . . . in this esteemed establishment . . . and talk? I would like to know more about you.”

Damn. He was smoother talking than any of the regular Joes that sit on these stools. And now that his silk tie was in the pocket of his Armani suit coat and the top button of his silk shirt was undone, his casual business persona was incredibly sexy.

“Now tell me again what brings you to Atlanta. You aren’t from here are you?” Claire said, leaning against the bar.

“Business, and no, but I think I am the one who wanted to ask the questions.” His tone contained a playful quality and at the same time was focused and controlled. Claire’s intuition told her that he was used to getting his way. Something made her wonder if that was what made him successful in business, because his appearance definitely said success, and if it transcended to his personal life.

Claire listened and watched as Anthony’s eyes glistened. He was tall. Now that the coat had been removed, she could tell he was muscular, with wide chest and firm waist. Most importantly, his left hand had an empty fourth finger. Claire definitely wouldn’t go there. Against her better judgment, she decided she wanted to answer those questions.