Fortunately, that was all he'd done. He'd collected some of his things, hurled a few belligerent insults at her—not to mention making the ludicrous threat that if she went through with this divorce he'd win sole custody of their son—and stormed out of the house. On the plus side, he'd been stone sober and in tight physical control, probably at the advice of his attorney. But still, his appearance, especially after the hell he'd put Faye through, had been enough to push her over the edge.
Victoria calmly reviewed the facts with her, emphasizing the strength of their case and assuring Faye that there wasn't a chance in hell her husband would win custody of their son. Not after his recent behavior, which was atrocious and well-documented. Things being as they were, he'd be lucky to get any unsupervised visitation rights.
It was a much calmer, more heartened Faye who left Victoria's office thirty minutes later.
Of course, Victoria had a lot of experience at soothing women who were intimidated by the men they lived with. Twenty-eight years of experience.
She picked up the phone book and resumed her search.
Nothing.
Swearing under her breath, she slammed the book shut and tossed it aside. There was no Hope Institute listed anywhere, not in the white pages and not in the yellow pages under "medical centers" or "clinics." That meant they were unlisted. Knowing her father, they were probably an elite institution guarding their privacy. So how was she going to find them?
She was at her computer searching the Internet's various business directories when Paul leaned into her office, his clean-cut, all-American features tight with concern.
"Victoria?" Me adjusted his trendy wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"
Slowly, Victoria's head came up. "Hmm?" she asked distractedly.
Paul's forehead creased as he eyed her with keen insight. "Something's up. Paige says you're acting weird, and for once, she's right. I tried asking Meg, but I can't pry a word out of her. Which means that whatever it is, you've confided in her. Care to do the same with me?"
Slowly, his words sank in and Victoria focused on his worried face. "It's personal, Paul."
"Is it your father?"
She started. "What?"
"Your father," he repeated patiently. "Is he pressuring you to join his firm again? Or . . ." He snapped his fingers. "Don't tell me. He's trying to steal one of my prestigious corporate clients."
Victoria managed a weak smile. "Nothing as simple as that. No, this is a real mess."
Paul continued to study her, a brooding expression on his face. "We've helped each other out of more messes than I can count. Let's add one more to the pile."
She hesitated.
"So it's not your father?"
"I . . ." How ironic that question was. Oh, it was her father, all right. But not in the way Paul meant. "No."
A brief nod. "Is it Zach, then? I read he was in town."
"It's not Zach." Instantly, Victoria cut Paul off, touched though she was by his concern. The last thing she needed now was to probe the subject of her lingering feelings for Zach. She had too much else on her mind—too much that was critical.
"Are you sure?" Paul pressed, apparently taking her silence as reluctance to admit the truth. "I know you and Meg always accuse me of being 'an oblivious man,' but I'm not totally dense. I remember what you were like when you and Zach broke things off. You walked around like a zombie for months. So if that's what's getting to you—"
"It isn't," Victoria interrupted to assure him. It wasn't like Paul to be so persistent. "This involves a lot more than my bruised emotions. It involves my family." She made a frustrated sound. "Look. I need to try to resolve this on my own. If I can't, if I decide I need help, I'll come straight to you and Meg. I promise."
Paul shot her a dubious look. "There's that damned wall of yours going up again. How many years do we have to know each other before you lower it for good? We all need to rely on others sometimes, Victoria. Even you." He held up a palm to ward off her reply, fully aware he'd overstepped his bounds. "Okay, I've said my piece. I won't push you—yet. But I will hold you to your promise. If you're still acting like this by the end of the week, I'll be right back in your face, insisting on knowing what's going on and demanding to help."
Another weak smile. "Thanks, Paul. You and Meg are great friends."
"Yeah, if you'll let us be." With a dark scowl, Paul went out and shut the door.
Victoria exhaled sharply, dropping her head into her hands. Maybe she should have told him. But she wasn't ready. To call on Paul—and even Meg to a greater extent than she already had—would mean to tell them everything: why she was so worried, how delicate Audrey's emotional state could sometimes get, and what that emotional frailty often resulted in.
She couldn't do that. Not now. She had to protect her sister the same way she'd protected her all her life, and keep her skeletons hidden.
Until and unless she believed she'd be doing a better job of protecting her by revealing her past rather than by concealing it. If that should happen, then she'd call on Meg and Paul.
A dull ache began to throb at Victoria's temples. She was upset and confused, her mind filled with so many questions.
Stop thinking like a sister, she berated herself. Think like a lawyer. Begin with the facts.
Okay. The facts—coupled with the obvious evidence of the phone calls her father had made.
Audrey had been living in Florence. Now she was in New York. She was ill. She'd been dressed in a hospital gown. She was running away.
That was the part that made Victoria's skin crawl.
Why had Audrey been running? Who was she afraid of? Why did she want Victoria to call the number she'd gasped out, and what was the danger she'd alluded to?
Worse, what part had their father played in all this? Why wouldn't he tell her what was going on? Who was he protecting? Who'd recaptured Audrey and taken her back to wherever she'd been—and where she probably was now?
Victoria knew damned well where: the Hope Institute.
She raised her head, staring at the irrelevant details reflected on the computer screen before her. She'd accessed every search engine she could think of. There was no mention of the Hope Institute—no website, no media articles, and no data on them whatsoever—not their board of directors nor their locations ... nothing.
She had to get a lead on this mystery clinic. It was the only way to find Audrey. But she was rapidly exhausting all her conventional sources for answers.
The logical thing would be to go to her father. It would also be the stupid thing. He'd only deny any connection between Audrey and the Hope Institute. That would result in Victoria learning nothing and being forced to tip her hand in the process.
She was too shrewd to allow that. If she'd inherited anything from her father, it was his sharp, analytical mind and his ability to keep one step ahead of the opposition. That and his unsettling poker face. Those traits were probably why she was so effective in court—and why she was the only person who wasn't intimidated by Walter Kensington.
Pensively, she considered the way her father's mind worked. If he'd chosen this clinic, it had to be upscale. That meant it would be nearby, either in Midtown or on the Upper East Side. It had to be affluent. And it had to be private— somewhere patients could be transported unobtrusively.
A sudden idea struck, and Victoria grabbed the phone book again. She had more than enough facts. It was time to resort to a bluff.
She flipped to the section of the yellow pages with the heading "ambulance service." There was a half-column list. She chose the companies that offered limousines as well as ambulances—a clear indication that they appealed to a wealthy, privacy-conscious clientele.
There were five such companies.
She began making her calls.
The first two yielded no results. The efficient receptionists, though sympathetic, had never even heard of the Hope Institute.
She got lucky
on the third try.
"Select Care. May I help you?"
"1 certainly hope so." Victoria carefully assumed just the right tone—the anxiety of a loved one coupled with the haughtiness one expected of a rich snob. "My name is Susan Haines. My grandmother is ill, and I've been staying with her for the past week while my parents are away. They left instructions about how and where to transfer her, should that become necessary."
"And has it?" the receptionist inquired instantly.
"Not yet. But I want to be prepared. I also want you to be prepared, since you were recommended by my grandmother's physician. I'm verifying my information now, just in case she takes a turn for the worse. Should she need to be hospitalized, I don't want to waste time on the phone."
"Of course, Miss Haines. I understand." The receptionist cleared her throat. "Please, go ahead."
"For starters, my grandmother's name is Mary Haines. She lives at 987 Park Avenue, between East Eighty-third and Eighty-fourth. Her apartment number is 3F. As for the medical facility she's to be transferred to, it's the Hope Institute. And it's located at..." Victoria rustled some papers around, holding her breath while she did. This was the part where, on both previous tries, she'd hit a dead end.
She didn't hit one this time.
"I'm familiar with the Hope Institute," the receptionist interjected.
Victoria's heart gave a wild little leap. Calm, she warned herself. You've got to stay calm. It's the only way you'll sound convincing. "Of course. I assumed you would be." She paused, rustling her papers again. "Now, where is that address?" she muttered aloud, exasperation lacing her words. "My secretary was supposed to print all the information out for me. But I only see part of it. Here's the Institute's phone number ..." She rattled it off for authenticity. "But I can't seem to find—"
"It's 105 East Seventy-eighth Street, between Park and Lex," the receptionist supplied, proud that she could recite the address off the top of her head. "We can get your grandmother there in no time. Please be assured, Miss Haines, our company's record is impeccable. We know what we're doing"
Victoria could have kissed her.
"I'm sure you do," she said calmly. "And I can't thank you enough for your patience. I feel much better. Hopefully, my grandmother will hold her own, so I won't need you while my parents are away. But if I do, I feel confident she'll be in good hands."
With that, she replaced the receiver, stood up, and buttoned her blazer.
105 East Seventy-eighth.
She was on her way.
* * *
Zach leaned forward on the couch in Suite 1010 at the Plaza Athenee. Intently, he stared at the TV across the room as it displayed the final segment of the videotaped surveillance the FBI had sent over. The audio had been dubbed in from an infrared bugging device, planted near the front entrance of the Hope Institute and monitored by the surveillance team.
To a passerby, the Hope Institute was just a six-story, nondescript apartment building on New York's fashionable Upper East Side. A brick veneer, complete with a green awning overhanging the front, a doorman at the entrance, two potted plants on the landing, and an iron-gated drive on the side. Externally, there was no evidence it had been converted to a clinic.
As for the events revealed on tape, there was nothing unexpected. The past week's arrivals had included only a linen truck and three food service trucks driving up to deliver supplies to the private side entrance, a thin stream of doctors, nurses, and clerical workers walking in and out of the front door, and one or two new, obviously wealthy patients arriving in limos—limos that disappeared beneath the building and into the private underground garage.
Innocuous or not, Zach took note of every detail. He was well aware that any one of them might wind up being significant—either on its own or when coupled with other recorded events. In his business, one needed a sharp eye for detail almost as much as one needed patience.
He had both.
Jotting down a few more notes, he pressed the stop button on the remote control, then clicked off the power. He settled himself more comfortably, sipping at his coffee and reading through his thickening file.
The Hope Institute was doing a damned good job of keeping their existence quiet. And if something illegal was going on inside those walls, the guilty parties were doing an even better job of concealing that.
He shoved a hand through his hair, letting his head drop back against the sofa cushion and shutting his eyes for a moment—partly to think better and partly to give his eyes a rest. He hadn't slept much these past weeks, not since the FBI had contacted him, requesting his help in their investigation into what now appeared to be a worldwide drug-trafficking ring. A series of shipments had been traced to Manhattan and the Hope Institute, implicating the clinic and giving the FBI its first real chance to crack the case wide open.
Now all they needed was proof.
He intended to get it.
Funny how things worked out.
The invitation to deliver the keynote address at the SCIP conference had come at the perfect time. It granted credibility to his visit to New York and at the same time eliminated any potential questions about who his client here was, and what bait had been used to lure him back to the States after four years abroad.
This was one client who had to remain anonymous.
Normally, Zach would be providing competitive intelligence to elite, high-tech companies interested in learning more about specific competitors—their business strategies, new products they had yet to introduce, their approaches to bidding for large contracts. It was all perfectly legal and aboveboard—Zach wouldn't have it any other way. He simply applied his sharp analytical skills to publicly available information, discerning subtle patterns that the inexperienced eye would miss. As for his government affiliation, many of his prominent colleagues at SCIP had spent time in the intelligence community. So it was no surprise the FBI had found him.
It wasn't the first time he'd assisted the government. While in Europe, the CIA would call on him to develop intelligence on various organizations. But it was the first time the case he was investigating hit so close to home. There had been one related case four years ago—the initial matter the FBI had approached him with. That investigation had been prompted by atrocities similar to the one that shaped his past. But this time there was a direct link, not only to the crimes, but to the criminals themselves.
It was more than enough to bring him home.
The feds had been confident he'd jump on the first plane back. And they were right. They knew how badly he wanted those men. They also knew why. His personal history was hardly a secret. More than a few of the now-seasoned agents heading up this investigation had been involved fifteen years ago when Zach's world had been violently shaken, his secu- ' rity and foundation snatched away.
His life had been altered forever that night. The FBI knew it. Just as they knew the magnitude of his determination to see justice done. It was one of the reasons they'd called him.
True, fifteen years was a long time. And, yes, the pain of loss had dulled. But some wounds never healed—not com- pletely. And if he could keep scum like that from hurting anyone else, destroying other lives ...
Abruptly, he stood, went to the window, and peered out. The sun was bright, glistening off the tall buildings that defined the New York skyline. On the street below, people scurried about in a rhythmic pattern like worker ants, dodging traffic and jumping in and out of cabs.
The growling of his stomach told him it was past lunchtime. Maybe he'd get out of here for a while, grab a bite to eat, then take a stroll through Central Park.
He wasn't usually this restless, not while he was working. This time was different. This time everything seemed much more personal.
For more reasons than one.
He jabbed his hands in his pockets, a different type of emotion—this one not bitter, but bittersweet—trickling through him.
It was odd being back in New York. He should feel detached, a visitor
rather than a native. Yet he didn't. On the contrary, he felt more at home here than anywhere else, maybe even Boston, where he'd spent the largest chunk of his life. There was something about Manhattan that made him feel connected, a pulse that reached out to him, beat inside him as well as out.
If he ever wanted to plant roots, this is the city in which he'd choose to do so.
He'd entertained that idea before, four years ago. He'd been all ready to settle down, to make Manhattan his home. It hadn't happened. Instead, he'd ended up in Europe— alone, as was his custom, but this time lonely in a way he'd experienced just one other time in his life.
And empty in a way he'd never known.
He frowned. This was definitely not the direction he'd meant his thoughts to take. Yet hadn't he realized they'd do just that when he set foot in this city, walked through the doors of this hotel and into Suite 1010?
He stepped away from the window, rubbed a palm over his jaw. He needed to shave and to shower. Then he'd get some lunch. After that, maybe he'd stroll around a little, reacquaint himself with this amazing city—a city that somehow still held him in its grasp.
He didn't choose to contemplate why.
* * *
7
Victoria crossed the understated lobby of the Hope Institute.
Nodding curtly at the doorman, she marched through to the reception area and straight up to the woman seated at the desk—the woman she'd undoubtedly spoken with earlier.
She wasn't going to be deterred—not this time.
"Yes?" The middle-aged receptionist leveled an unwavering stare at Victoria— not overtly rude, but far from welcoming. "May I help you?"
"I believe we spoke earlier today... Miss Evans," Victoria qualified, noting the nameplate on the woman's desk. There was no point in denying her earlier call. The receptionist wasn't stupid. And lying would accomplish nothing but getting her tossed out. "Victoria Kensington," she identified herself, placing one of her business cards on the desk.