Found: Her Long-Lost Husband

Found: Her Long-Lost Husband

Secrets We Keep

Jackie Braun

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my 10 sisters-in-law: Martha, Patti B., Izumi,

Diana, Diane, Kathy, Barb, Judy, Patti H. and Holly.

How did I get so lucky?

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

CLAIRE MAYFIELD STEPPED off the connecting flight in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport on the last leg of her long journey home and breathed deeply. She’d been on airplanes and sitting in bustling terminals in various spots around the globe for the past twenty-some hours, having flown out of Hong Kong International Airport.

She was jet-lagged, hungry for real food and eager to soak away the grime of travel with a hot bath. She also needed to find a man.

Not just any man. Her ex-husband, Ethan Seaver.

Just thinking his name had the air backing up in her lungs. Nerves, she told herself, even as her body’s reaction suggested something else. Claire ignored it, as she always did, exhaling slowly. Her reason for needing to find him had nothing to do with renewing their relationship, even if that were a possibility, which it wasn’t. No, she didn’t want to go back. She wanted to move forward. To do that, the past needed to be settled first.

As she made her way through the crowd of passengers, she switched the heavy carry-on case to the other shoulder. She was petite, fine-boned and just a hair over five-two in her stockinged feet, but for the first time in her life she had actual muscles defining her calves and thighs, and sculpting her shoulders and upper arms.

She had been away from Chicago for not quite three weeks, during which time she had bicycled four hundred kilometers through the Himalayas to raise money and awareness for the plight of exploited children. In many ways, though, it felt as if she’d been gone a lifetime. She was a changed woman—or at least a changing one. She felt stronger, more independent. She was determined to stand on her own two feet—this time for good.

In tackling the Himalayas on a twenty-one-speed bike, she’d begun another journey. This one was about self-discovery and, just as in the mountains, she had traveling companions for this trip too—Belle Davenport and Simone Gray. They made an unlikely trio—an American, a Brit and an Aussie who’d seemed to have little in common except for their gender and their obvious lack of athletic prowess. They were determined, though. Each had had something to prove—to themselves and to the people who looked at their seemingly cushy lives and sold them short.

They also had secrets. Secrets they had shared with no one until sitting in a tent high in the mountains, hands blistered, knees scraped, backs and behinds ridiculously sore, they’d exposed wounds far more damaging. Wounds that had festered for years.

In Belle’s case her seemingly perfect marriage was a sham, her well-heeled life a lovely façade intended to conceal an ugly childhood that had seen her and her young sister relegated to foster care and only one of them adopted. It hadn’t been Belle. She’d been forced to scrape and claw her way to adulthood on her own, where she’d become a successful morning television personality. Now Belle was determined to leave her husband and find her sister, Daisy.

Simone’s secret was equally heartbreaking. As a teenaged girl she’d killed her stepfather, an accident for which she had allowed her mother to take the rap and spend time behind bars. The lies had torn the family apart. Simone’s grandfather hadn’t spoken to her since then.

In comparison, Claire supposed her secret was not nearly so shocking. Still, it shamed her. A decade earlier she had met and married a man in a cowardly attempt to get out from underneath her father’s thumb. The marriage hadn’t lasted, nor had her spurt of rebellion. Both had been brief, their endings regrettable. She had only herself to blame for that.

Oh, she’d been genuinely fond of Ethan. At the time she had wondered if maybe she might be falling in love with the hard-working, sweet-talking young man who’d seemed so interested in her opinions, her dreams and her goals. No one before or since had taken her as seriously. God knew, she hadn’t taken herself seriously, which made her treatment of Ethan all the more appalling.

She’d used him.

Worse than using him, she’d set him up—his David to her father’s Goliath. Unlike the biblical version of the story, though, this time Goliath had come out the winner.

She hadn’t seen or heard from Ethan since. Nor had she become deeply involved with anyone else, despite her father’s efforts at finding her the perfect husband and her own attempts at dating. According to Belle, Claire was punishing herself. Simone had suggested she was waiting for a proper resolution to her marriage before moving on.

Closure. It was, they’d realized, what they all were seeking. And so, before their ride through China’s Yunnan Province had ended, the three women had made a pact. They would make amends and then they would start over. Getting from point A to point B, however, would be no easy downhill ride. It would require an uphill trek over very rocky terrain.

For Claire, it meant taking full responsibility for her actions and for her life. She would face Ethan, return the ring that had been in her jewelry box all of these years and finally make the apology that had been owed to him for more than a decade. What would he say? she wondered. How would he react when she contacted him? Memories beckoned, at first sweet and then turning sour, just as their relationship had. She’d be kidding herself if she thought he was going to be happy to see her.

“Miss Mayfield,” someone called. “Welcome home.”

She glanced over to see Dolan, her father’s driver, standing near the gate. Her gaze veered momentarily past his lanky, black-clad frame, but she recognized no one else. She chided herself for thinking her parents might have ventured to the airport to welcome her home. Sumner and Marianna Mayfield hadn’t wanted her to go on the bike trek in the first place, regardless of its role in raising funds for charity.

Unseemly, her mother had called it. Just as she had found Claire’s more sculpted physique unfeminine. Apparently it was better to be wisp thin and sickly all the time like herself.

During the months leading up to the trip, her father had appeared impressed by her dedication to the grueling training regimen she’d put together. Ultimately, though, he’d considered the entire endeavor unnecessary.

“Write a check, kitten,” he’d suggested.

Checks took care of all sorts of things—even idealistic young men who were not deemed suitable hus-bands for the debutante daughter of a wealthy Chicago businessman.

Mayfields were good at writing checks. And Claire had been good at taking her parents’ advice rather than risking her father’s wrath or upsetting her mother, who was always suffering from some malady or another. This time, though, she’d held her ground. This time she’d been determined to do more than donate money, which God knew she had in abundance thanks to her trust fund. Instead, she’d decided to put herself to the test. She’d had something to prove—to the people who believed she would never have to earn her way, and to herself.

So far, she was happy with the results.

“I trust your trip was uneventful,” Dolan inquired politely, taking the bag from her hands. The courtesy was second nature and one he was paid to perform. Even so, it startled Claire, who nearly snatched it back. In a matter of weeks, she had come to rely on herself.

“Not exactly.”

She recalled the bruises, scrapes and blisters, many of which had not yet healed. Nothing about the trip had been easy, but even as she sighed, she was smiling. She hadn’t felt this rejuvenated, this motivated, this damned purposeful in a very long time.

Dolan smiled in return, mistaking the meaning of her sigh. “Don’t worry. I’ll have you at your condo in short order. Traffic should be light this time of day. I’ll have you sitting poolside, sipping an apple martini well before dinner.”

Claire shook her head, though, and retrieved from her purse the folded classified section of the previous day’s Chicago Sun-Times. She’d picked it up during her layover in Los Angeles and had already made the necessary calls to set up appointments with Realtors. Handing it to the driver, she said, “Actually, I need to make a couple of stops first.”

Dolan’s graying eyebrows rose as he studied the circled addresses. “Apartments, miss?” And she knew he was good and flummoxed when he overstepped his bounds by asking, “Why do you need to look at apartments?”

“I’ve decided to find a place in the city.”

“In the city?” he repeated blankly.

Claire nodded. “I’m moving.”

And this time that would involve more than having the staff tote her belongings to a condominium her parents owned not far from their sprawling suburban Chicago estate. She’d done that after the marriage fiasco. Looking back, she realized what a pitiful attempt at independence it had been. No wonder her parents hadn’t tried to talk her out of it. This time they would.

Dolan’s startled reaction was mild compared to what she suspected her parents’ would be. Her father was going to erupt. After all, how could he continue to run her life if she was living an hour away in the city? Her mother would probably suffer one of her debilitating migraines brought on by emotional stress.

Claire wasn’t looking forward to the coming confrontation any more than she was eager to contact Ethan. To hear his deep voice again. To lose herself in the vivid green of his eyes—eyes that no doubt would brim with condemnation.

“I can do it,” she murmured.

“Pardon me, miss?”

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Sometimes you just have to trust yourself, take your hand off the brake and let momentum carry you all the way down the hill.”

She’d done that on the descent into Tiger Leaping Gorge, heart jammed in her throat and blocking her scream as the bike’s narrow tires had raced over bumpy and winding cobblestone roads that hugged the mountain on one side and dropped away into the gorge on the other.

Safely at the bottom, she’d pumped her fists in the air and whooped in triumph. Of course, once the adrenaline rush had abated, she’d heaved the contents of her stomach on to the tops of her shoes.

Dolan eyed her curiously, but merely nodded. “Of course, miss.”

He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. For that matter, Claire herself had only just begun to understand all of the lessons she’d learned.

She just hoped to God that when she found Ethan it would be far less painful and humiliating than when she’d hit that rock on the second day of their trip and wound up flying headfirst over the handlebars.

CHAPTER ONE

DID THE MANhave to be so good-looking?

That was Claire’s first thought as she stared at the color photograph of Ethan Seaver.

It wasn’t fair. He’d been approaching Greek god status a decade ago, with his deep-set green eyes, sexy mouth and well-defined cheekbones. He’d only improved with age.

The picture on the Web site was a head and shoulders shot, a professional portrait of a professional man. She could just make out the knot of a tie and the collar of a snowy-white shirt. She tried to concentrate on these innocuous details rather than the leanness of his cheeks or the sculpted line of his jaw. Even so, as she unscrewed the cap from a bottle of spring water and took a swig, she was wishing for something with a little more kick.

Locating her ex had proved remarkably simple. She hadn’t even required the services of a private investigator. All she’d had to do was type Ethan’s name into the search field on her laptop computer and hit Enter. Within seconds the search engine had spat back several screenfuls of possible matches to her rather broad inquiry.

The first couple of hits had provided links to newspaper stories, one from The Detroit Free Press and another from a respected national business journal. She had dismissed both at first, assuming it was a different Ethan Seaver who had been named as one of the thirty American entrepreneurs under forty to watch. But then her gaze had caught on the third entry down: Seaver Security Solutions, Ethan J. Seaver, president. Her heart had thumped and the blood had pounded noisily in her ears. Yet Claire swore she could hear his voice.

I plan to own my own company, Claire. A security firm protecting the assets of the Fortune 500. Some day even the likes of your father will be seeking my advice.

He’d told her that not long after proposing, as if wanting to assure her that his ambitions reached well beyond remaining a second-shift worker who punched a clock for somebody else.

According to the Web site, Ethan was the president and founder of a growing and respected commercial security firm that did everything from installation and monitoring to consulting and product development. Its headquarters was in Detroit with clients all over the Midwest.

Including Chicago.

Claire laughed out loud. The sound echoed off the bare walls of her apartment, a spacious two bedroom in a trendy section of Chicago that commanded a high price thanks to its sunrise view of Lake Michigan. Only a couple of days had passed since her return from the Himalayas, but she’d certainly managed to shake things up by signing a lease. As a result, her mother had taken to her bed and wasn’t speaking to Claire. Unfortunately, her father was. He’d spent the better part of the morning trying to “talk some sense” into Claire as a crew of movers had carried her boxed-up belongings to a waiting van.

It had irritated Sumner to no end that this time, no matter how much he blustered or threatened, Claire hadn’t budged. The problem—his problem, not hers—was that she’d never felt more sensible in her life.

Sensible. Yet here she was, sitting cross-legged on the bare floor and laughing like a happily medicated root canal patient because Ethan had essentially been right in her backyard all these years. Not only that, but he’d been providing surveillance and other high-end services to some of his ex-father-in-law’s competitors. The payback quotient was subtle but there.

Of course, even a decade ago Ethan’s dogged determination had been obvious. It was one of the qualities she had admired, respected. Claire had never met anyone quite like him in her sheltered life. He’d come from a modest background and yet words like “no” and “I can’t” hadn’t been part of his vocabulary. He’d been so driven, so purposeful. So…disappointing.

She rested the chilled bottle of water against her forehead, mirth and pride subsiding as anger sneaked in.

She had little doubt where Ethan had gotten the start-up capital for his business. She’d watched her father write out the postdated check. A very hefty sum paid to the order of Ethan Seaver on one condition: he needed to go away quickly and quietly.

And he had.

The one person Claire had counted on to be immune to her father’s high-handed bullying, the one person she had assumed would be too proud to take the powerful Sumner Mayfield’s money, had done just that, consenting to a divorce, keeping their marriage hush-hush, disappearing.

She swatted her anger aside. It didn’t matter. These days, Claire was counting on herself. She should have done that back then too, instead of involving a third party in her sticky family dynamics.

Staring at Ethan’s photograph, she swore his gaze held the same amount of accusation it had the last time they’d been face-to-face.

“Why in the hell did you marry me, Claire?” The demand had sounded almost like a challenge.

“I am sorry, Ethan,” she murmured now to the image on the computer screen.

That doesn’t count, honey.

Claire could almost hear Belle saying it, the words clipped with her British accent. She could almost hear Simone’s laughter trill. How she missed them. She had other friends, of course, but none in whom she had confided her shameful secret. That made the bond they shared all the more special.

Then, as if she had conjured up the pair, her computer chimed, signaling an e-mail had just been received. Claire clicked on her mailbox and discovered two, both delivered to the group account they had set up for their correspondence. The first message was from Simone and had come in several hours earlier. The latest was from Belle and apparently was in response to Simone’s. The subject lines didn’t bode well: diary missing.

Claire clicked on Simone’s e-mail first:

Hullo, ladies. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I seem to have lost the journal I kept during our trip.

Claire sucked in a breath. Simone had kept rather detailed notes of their travels, their burgeoning friend ship and finally their secrets and what they planned to do about them. Now the diary was gone, apparently dropped at the airport in her rush to catch a taxi. It made Claire a little queasy to think someone might be reading it. She clicked open Belle’s response:

Oh, Simone! What a shame about your diary. I know how hard you worked on it. Will you be able to put together your article without it?”

Simone worked for Girl Talk magazine.

If you need any details, I’ve got the stuff I wrote for my reports that you can have. As for anyone connecting us with it, I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s most likely in some airport waste compactor by now.

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.