Read Online Behind His Eyes - Truth by Aleatha Romig - Free Book Online
Authors: Aleatha Romig
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is Anthony, but you may still address me as Tony.”
“That’s very gentlemanly of you. Do you not think that, as your wife, I deserved to know your true name was Anton Rawls?”
He fought to stay seated. It was like coming out of the effects of the poison: he clawed to reach the surface—the place where his world was intact. Those two words—Anton Rawls—spoken by Claire, ripped away the veil separating his past from his present. With a semblance of calm, he asked, “Where could you possibly have come up with such a story?”
“Why, Anton , it was in your box of confessions.”
What the hell was she talking about? His voice gained strength with each syllable. “I assure you, I have no idea what you’re 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 them, 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 worked to process her words. Box. Confession. Prison. He squeezed the menu tighter.
Claire’s voice pulled him from the whirlwind of questions. If she knew that, what else did she know? “Are you saying you didn’t send me a box of information?”
Looking her in the eye, he confirmed, “I can assure you, I did not send you anything while you were in prison, and speaking of prison, congratulations on your early release.” He made no attempt to suppress the sarcasm that saturated his final statement; he was too busy processing.
“Thank you, I promise that I was as surprised as you must have been.”
Tony harrumphed as he took another drink of his wine, wishing it were bourbon. Once, he emptied the glass he poured another. After a hearty drink of the second glass, the calming effects began to settle his nerves and he replied, “That, my dear, is debatable.”
He concentrated on the menu as Claire mentioned entrees that she’d enjoyed. Slowly, the tension began to subside as they superficially chatted about the options. Tony worked to control his thoughts and actions and salvage their reunion dinner. Her information, knowledge, and depth of that knowledge would all need to be assessed. Of course, he hadn’t sent her information in prison. But if not him—who? That wasn’t even the question; Tony knew whom . The question was why?
As he ordered their meals in French, he noticed Claire smile. He’d meant to surprise her with her entrée for it was the one she’d mentioned; however, it was obvious that she understood everything he and the waiter had said. Once they were alone, he tested his theory. Speaking in French, he said, “I see that you’ve broadened your language portfolio.”
Also in French, she replied, “Yes, I decided to capitalize on my gift of time.”
He smiled. How could he not? She was talking casually about prison, as if it had been a vacation. He leaned forward. “Claire, how’s your headache?”
Taking a sip from her glass, she smiled. “I believe the wine is helping.”
“That’s good. Tell me about San Antonio.”
If he expected her to be surprised by his knowledge of her activity, she disappointed him. Then again, he suspected that she knew he was watching her. Claire didn’t miss a beat. She immediately began talking about sunshine, books, and relaxation. They fell into easy conversation. He remembered the Red Wing and talking with her for the first time. Even then, she’d impressed him with her confidence and knowledge. Her strength hadn’t waned over the last year and a half. It emanated from every pore of her being, like an aura that pulled him nearer. She possessed knowledge, of language and of him. It intrigued, as well as frightened him. What would she do with her new power? Could he stop it? Did he want to? As the dinner progressed, her smile became less forced and her tone rang with the occasional
“That’s very gentlemanly of you. Do you not think that, as your wife, I deserved to know your true name was Anton Rawls?”
He fought to stay seated. It was like coming out of the effects of the poison: he clawed to reach the surface—the place where his world was intact. Those two words—Anton Rawls—spoken by Claire, ripped away the veil separating his past from his present. With a semblance of calm, he asked, “Where could you possibly have come up with such a story?”
“Why, Anton , it was in your box of confessions.”
What the hell was she talking about? His voice gained strength with each syllable. “I assure you, I have no idea what you’re 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 them, 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 worked to process her words. Box. Confession. Prison. He squeezed the menu tighter.
Claire’s voice pulled him from the whirlwind of questions. If she knew that, what else did she know? “Are you saying you didn’t send me a box of information?”
Looking her in the eye, he confirmed, “I can assure you, I did not send you anything while you were in prison, and speaking of prison, congratulations on your early release.” He made no attempt to suppress the sarcasm that saturated his final statement; he was too busy processing.
“Thank you, I promise that I was as surprised as you must have been.”
Tony harrumphed as he took another drink of his wine, wishing it were bourbon. Once, he emptied the glass he poured another. After a hearty drink of the second glass, the calming effects began to settle his nerves and he replied, “That, my dear, is debatable.”
He concentrated on the menu as Claire mentioned entrees that she’d enjoyed. Slowly, the tension began to subside as they superficially chatted about the options. Tony worked to control his thoughts and actions and salvage their reunion dinner. Her information, knowledge, and depth of that knowledge would all need to be assessed. Of course, he hadn’t sent her information in prison. But if not him—who? That wasn’t even the question; Tony knew whom . The question was why?
As he ordered their meals in French, he noticed Claire smile. He’d meant to surprise her with her entrée for it was the one she’d mentioned; however, it was obvious that she understood everything he and the waiter had said. Once they were alone, he tested his theory. Speaking in French, he said, “I see that you’ve broadened your language portfolio.”
Also in French, she replied, “Yes, I decided to capitalize on my gift of time.”
He smiled. How could he not? She was talking casually about prison, as if it had been a vacation. He leaned forward. “Claire, how’s your headache?”
Taking a sip from her glass, she smiled. “I believe the wine is helping.”
“That’s good. Tell me about San Antonio.”
If he expected her to be surprised by his knowledge of her activity, she disappointed him. Then again, he suspected that she knew he was watching her. Claire didn’t miss a beat. She immediately began talking about sunshine, books, and relaxation. They fell into easy conversation. He remembered the Red Wing and talking with her for the first time. Even then, she’d impressed him with her confidence and knowledge. Her strength hadn’t waned over the last year and a half. It emanated from every pore of her being, like an aura that pulled him nearer. She possessed knowledge, of language and of him. It intrigued, as well as frightened him. What would she do with her new power? Could he stop it? Did he want to? As the dinner progressed, her smile became less forced and her tone rang with the occasional
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