Step One: Admitting that one cannot control one’s addiction or compulsion.

—Twelve-Step Program, Alcoholic Anonymous

“Mr. Rawlings, I sent you an email. I can resend,” Cameron Andrews, private investigator, said.

“Yes, do that. Sometimes things are blocked.” Tony knew that probably wasn’t the case. He hadn’t been paying attention.

Andrews continued to report, “Mrs. Burke closed her art studio in Provincetown and moved to Santa Clara.”

Tony shook his head against the phone. “Closed it?!”

“Temporarily. That’s what the sign said.”

If Sophia were willing to follow her husband across the country, she obviously didn’t recognize the future she had in the art world. Not every artist received an invitation to exhibit her work at the Florence Academy of Art. Tony remembered Italy, watching her from afar. Her poise and confidence were evident as both art enthusiasts and patrons praised her work and her new, bolder pieces. Tony couldn’t understand why she’d put that life aside to take a backseat to Derek’s ambitions; after all, Tony had spent a lot of money paving her way to fame and fortune. Derek’s job opportunity of a lifetime was supposed to emphasize their differences, not bring them together.

“When did she move?” Tony asked.

“Yesterday,” Andrews replied.

“Keep an eye on her.” Tony’s mind swirled. There were more options; he just needed to concentrate. “Get me a list of names. I want to know all the art curators in the Santa Clara area. Perhaps we can get her connected to that local art world.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll get back to you with that.”

“I don’t believe she’s in danger. She doesn’t need constant monitoring. Just keep me up to date. And Andrews?”

“Yes?”

“Run some financial background checks on those curators and their studios. Let’s see if anyone is having difficulties during this recovering economy.” Tony added with a smirk, “I’ve always wanted to diversify into the world of art.”

Andrews chuckled. “Yes, I’m sure that will be a great investment. I’ll get back to you with some numbers in a day or two.”

“That’ll be fine.” Tony disconnected his phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn, after all the time and money he’d spent on Catherine’s daughter, it seemed like every time he looked away for a minute, her life spun in another direction. Derek’s job offer was no surprise; Tony had weaved that bit of manipulation personally. When the parent company’s CEO made a suggestion, presidents and vice presidents of subsidiaries listened, at least ones who enjoyed employment. Apparently, Roger Cunningham fell into that category. Sophia moving to California was a surprise. The last thing Tony had heard, Shedis-tics offered Burke the opportunity to fly east most weekends.

To Tony, it seemed like the perfect scenario: Burke alone in a new city with a pretty little assistant who was willing to make extra money. Tony never considered the possibility that his plan would fail.

Sophia deserved better than a Burke. Even if he was only a distant cousin from the Burkes on their list, he was still a Burke. She also deserved to flourish in her chosen career. Tony didn’t know much about art, but he knew how he felt about the portrait that graced his suite. Sophia had captured Claire’s eyes perfectly. Tony should know: he’d spent hours looking at her work. On more than one occasion, when the sweet burn of Blue Label couldn’t stop the bottomless pit of memories, he would stare at Claire’s wedding portrait and recall scene after scene, some good, some not.

Then he would remember her failure. Tony had experienced loss—most significantly, his family. He had seen his parents, covered in their own blood; however, the video footage of Claire driving away tore at him like nothing he’d ever known. His parents didn’t willfully leave him. The reports of murder/suicide were false. His grandfather didn’t willfully die in a hellhole of a prison with inept medical facilities. No, that blame fell on Jonathon Burke and Sherman Nichols. Claire willfully seized the first opportunity she found and left him. She failed his ultimate test.

Over the past year, on the rare occasions when Tony allowed the memories and thoughts to flow, he waged an internal war—love versus hate. At one time, he thought he loved her. What the hell was love? It wasn’t something he’d ever witnessed in real life, except perhaps on occasion between Marie and Nathaniel. He recalled moments—when they didn’t know he was present—when Tony saw an unfamiliar side of his grandfather.

Usually the man was in total control of everyone and everything, except during those moments. Did Tony ever give that to Claire—control? He’d never given that to anyone. With Claire, he needed control. He yearned for it, and she’d flourished under it. Obviously, when given a choice, she’d failed. Claire needed his guidance.

While she was in prison, Tony knew she was safe, secure, and unable to make poor decisions.

Now things were different and public.

Her damn picture wasn’t just showing up in his inbox from Roach. No, she was gracing magazine after magazine. In the new world of Internet frenzy, she was fuck’n trending. Tony didn’t know what to believe. Many articles claimed that she was penniless and destitute. Tony knew for a fact that wasn’t true. Roach reported a $100,000 windfall. It’d come from a cashier’s check that Roach traced back to a bank in New York. Unfortunately, it had been purchased with cash and the trail died. Who would give Claire that kind of money? Whoever it was didn’t have the balls to man up. If they had, Tony would have found a way to cut them off.