Found: Her Long-Lost Husband

Probably, Claire thought. Even if someone had opened it, the beginning pages were likely bland enough to quell any interest.

Belle had continued,

Now for my news…

Claire blinked at the screen. And here she’d thought she had been working at a fast pace. But then, Belle never could stand to have anyone else in the lead. Already she’d left her husband, Ivo, moving out of his upscale Belgravia town house, and was living in the flat at Camden Lock she’d kept since before her marriage. And she’d cut her hair, changed her look. She’d attached a photograph that had Claire smiling. Belle’s trademark blonde locks were gone, clipped off into a softly layered short ’do that complemented her lovely face.

Claire wrote back to Simone first:

Don’t beat yourself up about this. It’s disappointing and frustrating, but I can’t imagine it will cause any problems for any of us.

She added a one-sided happy face. Then she wrote:

By the way, I moved out, too. I’m in my new apartment right now, sitting on the floor since I have no furniture yet. Not even a comfortable bed. Reminds me of our trip.

This time the smiley face icon was all teeth.

And, drum roll please. I’ve found my ex. Turns out he’s made quite a name for himself. I’m attaching a URL to his Web site.

Send.

To her delight, Belle answered just as Claire was getting ready to log off. Apparently she was still online:

Hmm. A prime specimen, that one. I can see why you were attracted to him.

Claire ignored the tug of lust that lingered when she recalled his face…and remembered his very capable hands. She wrote back:

Wish me luck. I’m going to call him first thing tomorrow morning.

You’re calling him? Why not a face-to-face meeting? He deserves that much, don’t you think?

Belle’s query nipped at Claire’s conscience.

Yes, but I think I need to call first. He lives in another state now, a good six hours’ drive.

A day’s ride away. Take your bike.

Belle teased in return.

A little chilly for that here in November.

Freezing rain tapped at the windows as she typed the words.

Fine. Take a car then. But go.

Belle could be relentless.

Claire promised:

I will. Eventually. For now, a phone call.

Okay. For now. Let us know how it goes. It must be late in Chicago.

Nearly two in the morning.

Better get your beauty sleep then. Not that you need it. Good night, love.

‘Night.

Claire jotted down Ethan’s office number from the Web site and then turned off the computer. First thing in the morning, she vowed silently, she would speak to him.

Ethan Seaver believed in setting goals and going after what he wanted—even the seemingly impossible. That was how he explained his success in business when the odds had been stacked against him and his small independent company at the outset.

A man had to be determined, decisive. He had to be willing to take risks. He couldn’t let the fear of failure hold him back. Ethan wasn’t afraid to fail. In fact, he refused to accept it as an outcome. Professionally.

His personal life was another matter. He’d learned his lesson—a very painful one—a long time ago courtesy of a beautiful woman. Some risks just weren’t worth taking, just as sometimes failure was the price one paid for being blind and foolish. His disastrous marriage to Claire Mayfield had taught him to be cautious—his sisters-in-law claimed suspicious—of women in general and love in particular. He dated, but he was careful to keep things from developing beyond a casual relationship. That suited him. After all, he didn’t have time for more than dinners out and the occasional romantic evening in. Business was his main focus and his business was growing.

Seaver Security Solutions had posted record profits the previous year. Ethan wanted to expand the bottom line further by moving into new markets and beginning production of the new security system he’d developed. Record profits notwithstanding, he needed serious money to do that. He’d put out feelers, quietly seeking an investor, but he was having little luck finding one who shared his vision. Meanwhile, his accountant was suggesting he consider taking Seaver public.

“The initial public offering would bring in more than enough to cover your research and development needs,” the accountant had assured him during a recent meeting. “It could even be a carrot to attract and retain quality workers if you compensated your top managers and executives with stock as well as a competitive salary.”

It made sense. Still, Ethan wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of sharing the fruits of his labor with outsiders. Nor was he sure he wanted the added headache of filing regular reports with the Securities and Exchange Commission, even though a publicly held Seaver Security Solutions would certainly enjoy greater prestige.

He was flipping through the prospectus he’d had a team of lawyers draft just in case when his secretary buzzed him on the office intercom.

“There’s a call for you, Mr Seaver.”

He glanced at his watch. Not quite seven-thirty. He liked to start his work day early, by seven at the latest. He found himself most productive before ten. Curiously, he’d met few movers and shakers in the business world his security firm served who believed likewise, unless it involved a meeting on a golf course.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Claire Mayfield.”

Ethan prided himself on having nerves of steel and a poker face. He routinely cleaned up in Friday night card games with his two brothers and their friends. But nothing could have prepared him for hearing that name. It blasted from his past, landing like a sucker punch. He was grateful to be alone in his office since his mouth had slackened with surprise. He snapped it shut and tamped down on the unexpected and unwanted flood of emotions.

He pressed the intercom button again. “Claire Mayfield?” he managed in a casual tone.

“She claims you know her,” Anita Dauber replied.

Hardly, he thought. Bitterness welled again, spew-ing with the destructive force of molten lava. I never knew the woman at all. He cleared his throat. He was calm once again when he inquired, “Does she say why she’s calling?”

“Just that it’s personal. Should I ask her to be more specific?”

God, no! The last thing he wanted was to have his private life paraded in front of an employee, no matter how discreet Anita could be. He’d only told his immediate family about his hasty nuptials to Claire, and even then he’d skimped on the particulars. The outcome had been too embarrassing, too—painful, to give a detailed account.

“That’s all right. I’ll speak to her.”

Ethan let Claire stew on hold for a good five minutes, almost hoping the uninspired instrumental versions of pop tunes piped through the line would get to her and she would hang up. But the light on his phone continued to blink. It was just his luck. For once, the woman wasn’t going away.