Her speed of speech was inconsequential. Her husband’s image was gone—their connection severed. Sophia stared at the screen for a minute. In place of her husband’s moving, talking image, she once again saw his profile picture and name. It went without saying; things must be wild at Shedis-tics and all the other Rawlings’ subsidiaries. No matter, Sophia wanted to know when Mr. Rawlings went missing, and when did his ex-wife go missing? She did remember Mr. Rawlings saying he was off his game. It was all so strange.

Sophia had thought it was odd having him at the studio, asking her to dinner, offering to buy a painting, and then not showing to dinner. She remembered waiting at the restaurant for an hour before she left. Of course, she was perturbed and wondered why he’d invite her, just to stand her up. Then, as she sat alone at the table, Sophia recalled Mrs. Cunningham’s remark during the gala, last spring. She said Mr. Rawlings was well-known for his inclination for punctuality.

This new information added to the peculiarity of his visit.

Trying to make sense of everything, Sophia walked back to the bedroom to finish packing. Going home to California held much more promise now that Derek would be there too.

Claire looked up to see Harry’s customary blonde hair blowing in the brisk wind off the lagoon, while his blue eyes stared steadfast in her direction. The black veil covering her world ripped open, exposing her sudden vulnerability. Shaken by this new paradigm, she was unable to speak. Everything was out of context. She had a wig which made her hair black, and contacts that made her eyes a dark brown. She wasn’t Claire Nichols, yet she was. Phil was the only familiar person who belonged in her new parallel universe. He was the only one she could trust. How many times had they both discussed that? How many times had they practiced what should happen if their bubble was indeed penetrated?

Words didn’t form as she continued to gape. Her instinct told her to turn, run, and pretend she didn’t know the man now close enough to touch. She could respond in Italian and act offended by his proximity. If she did, would Harry understand? He’d never mentioned his ability to speak other languages—nor had she. While her internal debate raged, Claire stood and faced the man she hadn’t seen since the hospital in Palo Alto—the man who saved her and her baby’s life—the man who, for a brief moment in time, thought he was the father of her child. Claire’s hand fought the urge to flutter above her growing midsection.

Oh, she knew Phil would tell her to turn away. They were supposed to leave soon. If only she’d made her decision about their hidden location. If only she hadn’t gone out alone. If only her life wasn’t such a mess—alas, she hadn’t—she did—and it was.

As Harry’s gaze intensified and his hand reached toward her arm, better judgment prevailed and in near perfect Italian, Claire responded, “Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else.” Immediately, hurt registered on Harry’s face. It wasn’t confusion brought on by a language barrier—no, she saw anguish caused by her deception.

He gripped her arm. With emotion filled Italian rolling off his tongue, he asked, “Why Claire? Why are you hiding? You have so many people worried. Why, after everything would you lie to me?”

Claire nervously glanced from side to side. The people in St. Mark’s Square came into focus. Not one of them looked in their direction or cared what was happening. She didn’t know if this was what she wanted to see. Did she want to find Phil lurking nearby? Did she want him to save her and stop her from revealing any of her secrets? Or, was she confirming his absence—verifying her momentary freedom and ability to be honest with an old friend?

Looking down, away from his icy blue gaze, Claire whispered, “It isn’t safe. I can’t talk to you.” There was no reason to speak in Italian.

When she looked back up, Harry wasn’t looking down at her; he was scanning the terrain, perhaps assessing her concern for danger. In the next few transpiring seconds, his grasp of her arm controlled her movement and her, at first, unwilling feet. With quick uninterrupted steps he directed Claire away from the open square, through a large stone archway, down a narrow path, and into a quiet dark tavern. By the time they entered, Claire was no longer resisting. Appearances were too engrained in her behavior. She couldn’t make a scene even if she wanted. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d kidnap her—Harry wouldn’t do that. He was just an old friend, concerned about her safety. That’s what she told herself as they passed the small group of customers near the bar. No one seemed interested as they pressed into a booth. Claire sat first while Harry eased in next to her. After so many months apart and the circumstances of their break-up, Claire found his approach and proximity unnerving. The warmth of the tavern combined with the touch of his knee against hers, felt suffocating. The man beside her held an air of control she’d never witnessed in him before. Though she hadn’t experienced it with Harry, Claire recognized the suffocating sensation. Her face flushed with a consciousness of captivity, as Phil’s words: no one can be trusted, dominated her thoughts.