Besides, no amount of liquor could burn away the memories evoked by seeing Victoria.
He walked back to the VCR and pressed the play button.
He knew the sequence by memory. Twelve minutes from start to finish. First she approached the door, glanced around, steeled herself for whatever she intended to accomplish. Then she walked in. Eleven minutes later, she, emerged, glancing over a Hope Institute brochure—or pretending to.
He hit the pause button and scrutinized her face.
He knew that look. Her brows were knit, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Something was bothering her. She wasn't concentrating on the pamphlet. She was mulling something over. But what? Whom had she gone to see?
Most important, what connection did this have to his investigation?
Knowing Victoria, anything was possible. She could have a client who was a patient there. She could have come upon the name of the Hope Institute in one of her pleadings and decided to poke around.
The only thing that wasn't possible was that she was part of whatever her father was involved in. She couldn't be working with him. Not on this.
Not on anything, he remembered, a corner of his mouth lifting. Even in her second year of law school, Victoria was already battling her father about joining his firm. He was adamant, but so was she. On this issue, she wasn't going to bend.
Walter Kensington was not Victoria's idea of what an attorney should be, at least not as far as his motives were concerned. Zach had to agree. Kensington's brilliance was indisputable. He was a veritable legal genius, but his priorities were sickening—as were his scruples.
Victoria, on the other hand ...
Zach could still remember the first time he'd laid eyes on her. He was a guest lecturer at Columbia, explaining competitive intelligence and how it was practiced within moral and legal boundaries.
She'd approached him afterward and asked some pointed questions.
He'd noticed her even before that.
The lecture hall was large, but she'd arsived early and sat in the front row. She'd crossed her legs, turned on her tape recorder, opened her notebook, and stared fixedly at him for the entire hour he spoke, as if she were trying to absorb every word. Occasionally, she'd nodded, jotted down a few notes, and once or twice she'd raised her hand to ask for clarification on the relatively new and exciting field of competitive intelligence.
He'd be lying if he claimed not to have noticed her looks. They were impossible to miss. By anyone's standards, Victoria Kensington was beautiful; delicate features, expressive hazel eyes, masses of shiny black hair, and a figure that could take a man's breath away. So, yes, he'd noticed her appearance.
But he'd kept noticing her for her intelligence, her depth of perception, her insightful questions, that thirst for knowledge he saw in those keen hazel eyes, the compassion in her voice when she spoke her mind.
And she spoke it often.
His lips curved as he remembered their heated debates— debates that had begun that cold January afternoon and continued for the next five months. It wasn't so much that they disagreed as that they enjoyed matching wits. Or perhaps they were just enthralled by the sparks they generated, sparks that. flew between them whenever they came together—intellectually, emotionally, physically.
That first day they'd met, things had stayed purely intellectual. They'd argued ethics over coffee, legal loopholes over dinner, and sleazy courtroom tactics over a late-night drink. Zach couldn't remember ever being so absorbed in another person that he lost track of time and place.
Their first date had led to a second, and a second to a third. His projects in New York were supposed to take him a few months; he'd done nothing to bring them toward closure. In fact, for a man who typically worked eighteen-hour days, he was suddenly working half-days, driving over to Columbia at dusk and picking her up, taking her to dinner, driving her home to Greenwich.
For a man who was totally self-reliant, who'd never been seriously involved, not even in an enduring friendship, much less something deeper, he suddenly found himself falling head over heels in love.
He didn't believe in magic.
She mesmerized him.
He didn't believe in fairy tales.
She made them come true.
He certainly didn't believe in forever.
But he wanted it. And he wanted it with Victoria.
She was equally consumed by what was happening between them. He knew even before she said the words, not out of arrogance but because he was aware of everything she was feeling. He was also aware she was fighting those feelings. And the more he came to understand her, the more she trusted him with pieces of her past, the more he understood why.
She wasn't someone who bared her soul easily. She was as loath to do so as he. And, for an incredibly beautiful and independent woman, she was surprisingly naive about men. He soon realized why.
There hadn't been any.
Not until him.
Zach swore under his breath, drained the last drops of bourbon, and gazed broodingly around the suite.
Their first night together had been here. He'd planned to go slowly, to weave a sensual spell around her, to relax her with cabernet and biscotti, vases of yellow roses, and that cute stuffed Jack Russell terrier.
The food had waited, the gifts gone unnoticed for hours.
And they? They'd scarcely gotten their clothes off in time, they'd been so frantic for each other. They'd fallen into bed as if they were starved, made love with an urgency Zach never knew existed. Again and again, they'd joined their bodies, insatiable with a need that seemed to have no beginning and no end.
A need that only, intensified as the night wore on.
It had been her first time.
And, in some ways, his as well.
That familiar knife twisted in his gut.
Goddammit. He'd been abroad for ages. Long enough for her to perfect her role as the emotional rock of her family. Long enough for her to achieve the independence she was hell-bent on securing. Long enough for her to become the brilliant attorney she'd been on the brink of becoming before he turned her world upside down by offering her a future she couldn't live with.
And long enough for her to forget him.
Then why the hell couldn't he forget her?
He knew why.
He wished to hell he didn't.
He hadn't planned on seeing her again. But fate had made a different decision. Her visit to the Hope Institute had collided with his investigation. It was impossible for him to stay away.
Someone had to go see her about this. Better him than Meyer.
* * *
Victoria was relieved Leonard was off duty when she left her uncle and aunt's apartment. She was in no mood for banter. She felt frustrated and dejected and, yes, guilty for upsetting her uncle.
She had a great deal to consider. She had to organize her thoughts, separate emotion from fact, and reason out her best course of action.
And she had to get home to do it.
She turned up her collar, ignoring the annoying drizzle, and began walking. As always, she made her way along Park Avenue to East Eighty-second, then turned to walk the remaining blocks to her apartment.
Part of her had been hoping Clarissa and Jim would have the answer, or would at least have heard of the obscure Hope Institute. They hadn't. A dead end—unless she wanted her uncle to do some discreet digging, which would mean involving her father.
Why did that notion bother her so much? Was it because she knew he'd stonewall her again, or was it something uglier? Did a small part of her believe that, by revealing her hand, she'd be tipping her father off, giving him advance warning that she was getting close to finding Audrey and, as a result, giving him ample opportunity to conceal her even more thoroughly?
But why? Why was she assuming the worst?
And did it really matter? With her options being eliminated one by one, she was headed back to her father anyway.
Lost in thought, she
wasn't sure when she became aware that she was being followed.
She stopped, her head snapping around so she could scan the area. This section of East Eighty-second was never deserted. As always, people stepped out of restaurants, hailing cabs to take them home. And a few brave souls like herself were walking home.
No one sinister lurking about. Nothing out of place.
But she couldn't shake that feeling.
Someone was watching her.
Clutching her pocketbook to her side, she quickened her pace, making sure to walk directly under the streetlights and close to the buildings, so she could dart inside if necessary. Crime was rare in this section of Manhattan, but as a woman living alone, she was always prepared.
She arrived home without incident, her key out and ready. Actually, she'd had it in her hand, teeth out, from the instant she sensed that she was being followed. A house key could make an excellent weapon.
Five minutes later, she was in her apartment, her door locked. She frowned, crossing over to her bedroom. It wasn't like her to be afraid.
Impulsively, she let her hand fall away from the light switch without flipping it on. She tiptoed through the darkened bedroom and stopped just before she reached her window.
Slowly, keeping back a few feet, she leaned forward and peeked outside.
That same man was standing across the street, lounging casually under the streetlight. Same height, same build, same body motions. The only addition was the cigar he was smoking.
But he was definitely the same one who'd been there Saturday.
And he was watching her town house.
* * *
For the first time, Victoria took a cab to work the next morning.
She didn't get in until late, almost eleven. Then again, she hadn't fallen asleep until after five.
She was exhausted, she was jumpy, and she was furious that someone was doing this to her.
Paige had just sat down behind her desk when Victoria walked in.
"Hi," she greeted her. "I got your message on the machine. Whatever case you were working on, it really must be bugging you. According to the machine, your call came in at five after three in the morning."
Victoria managed a weak smile. "I lost track of time," she said, sifting through the mail. "And I knew I wasn't due in court until after lunch. So I pushed myself a little."
"How come I don't look like you when I push myself?" Paige lamented, studying Victoria's face, then taking in the classic lines of her tweed suit. "When I'm cramming all night for an exam, I look like something the cat dragged in."
Behind the letter she was skimming, Victoria's lips twitched. "No, you don't. You're very pretty, Paige. Exams or not."
"Maybe it's your coloring," Paige mused, scarcely hearing the compliment. "It's so vivid. It's easier to see fatigue lines on a blonde. I read that in Cosmo. Maybe that's it. I'm too blond." She sighed, sitting back in her chair. "Who am I kidding? It's your body. What man in their right mind wouldn't drool over it? How did you get such long legs when you're not really tall? Only really tall women are supposed to have long legs. But you're only a couple of inches taller than me, right?"
Victoria was scarcely listening. "I'm five-four," she answered automatically.
"I thought so. That must be it. It's your legs. All the men are staring at them. In fact, you'll probably win your case today with that suit on. The skirt looks amazing. If the judge is a man, you're set. If it's a woman, you're screwed."
Slowly, Victoria lowered her piece of correspondence. "It's Judge Williams. And, Paige, he won't be looking at my legs. He'll be listening to my arguments. I'm trying to get custody for Agatha Wilding's kids, not pick up a hot date." She paused, realizing how frayed her nerves were, how close she was to blurting out the fact that not everyone was as obsessed with the opposite sex as Paige was.
The best thing she could do for her secretary was to avoid her.
"I'm going into my office to read over the Wilding file," she said tersely. "Please hold my calls."
She hadn't meant to be that curt, Victoria thought as she headed down the hall. She felt guilty for the hurt look she'd seen on Paige's face. But she couldn't do anything about it—not now. She had too much to contend with, and almost no time to do it in. She was due in court in two hours. Between now and then she was determined to call her uncle with a decision.
Should she mention the man who was following her?
She hadn't done so at dinner last night, simply because she was beginning to think the whole thing was her imagination. She'd seen no sign of him since Saturday.
But last night, he was back. He'd followed her home, and then watched her apartment on and off all night. She'd checked at fifteen-minute intervals. Sometimes he'd be there, sometimes not. But he didn't disappear for good until almost five.
She'd considered calling the police. But what would she tell them? That a man periodically showed up outside the building across the street from hers smoking a cigar, and that she was convinced he was watching her? After the Central Park mcident on Saturday, everyone at the precinct was exasperated with her. Oh, they'd grudgingly send someone out. But what good would it do? The man with the cigar would undoubtedly take off as soon as he saw a cop.
No, the police couldn't help. But, dammit, she wasn't imagining things. That man was definitely watching her. She knew it in her gut.
What she didn't know was why.
She shut herself up in her office and paced over to her desk. Scooping up the Wilding file, she perused it briefly. She knew the facts for today's hearing like the back of her hand. Agatha would win. Those two little children would stay with their mother and not be subjected to their father's midlife crisis, which was prompting him to bring home a different, barely-at-the-age-of-legal-consent bedmate each night.
She was just getting her papers in order when the knock sounded.
"Victoria?" Paige poked her head in. "Court was just canceled. Judge Williams had some kind of personal emergency. You're rescheduled for Thursday."
"Fine." Victoria tossed the file on her desk, half disappointed, half relieved. Maybe it was better this way. True, she wanted the whole mess over with for Agatha's sake. On the other hand, sure thing or not, she intended to give the case her all. And today her all was pretty pathetic.
Frowning, she massaged her throbbing temples. "Paige, do me a favor? Call Mrs. Wilding and tell her. She'll be okay with the delay; she knows this one's in the bag. I just can't talk to anyone right now. And forgive me for being so sharp with you. I guess I'm more tired than I realized."
Paige's good nature prevailed, and she gave Victoria a sunny smile. "No problem. We all have those days. Take as much time alone as you need. Oh, and don't worry about Mrs. Wilding. I'll take care of her." She ducked out.
Okay, so now she could devote herself to resolving her own personal crisis. Should she ask for her uncle's assistance, or was there a better way to go about finding Audrey?
And how should she deal with the fact that she was being followed?
Reflexively, Victoria walked over to the window and peeked down at the street, wondering if he'd tracked her to work, too.
Why was he watching her? It had to tie in to Audrey's disappearance. The timing was too coincidental. Had the Hope Institute sent him? Worse, had her father? Why was he so eager to keep her from Audrey? What threat could she possibly represent?
Behind her, there was another purposeful rap on her door.
She ignored it, hoping Paige would take the hint and go away.
No such luck.
The knob turned, and the door swung open.
"Paige, please." Victoria's tone was fraught with tension. "I thought you understood. I really need some time alone. Whatever it is, can't it wait?"
"I'm afraid not."
The deep baritone, quiet and composed, sliced through her like a knife.
She froze, every muscle in her body going rigid. Then she turned around slowly, as if she were on autopilot, feeli
ng a dazed sense of unreality as she did.
Zach was standing there.
"Hello, Victoria."
This couldn't be happening. Not after the roller-coaster ride she'd been on the past few days. It was simply too much for her to contend with. Zachary Hamilton couldn't be standing in her doorway.
But he was.
Victoria said nothing for a long moment, just stood very still, struggling for the composure she was so famous for.
He hadn't changed.
That same powerful height and build. That same square, uncompromising jaw. And those compelling eyes, so dark they seemed to see clear through to her soul.
There were a few subtle differences. His blue, European- cut suit and Italian silk tie were less conservative than he might have worn four years ago. And he looked—older wasn't the right word—more seasoned, with a few more lines etched on his forehead and around his mouth. He was thirty-five now. It was hard to believe. Harder to believe was the effect he still had on her, even now, after four long years.
"Zach." She managed to sound fairly normal, although she leaned forward to grip her desk for support. "I—I didn't expect to see you."
A comer of his mouth lifted in that crooked smile that was the only boyish thing about him. Everything else was hard. His features. His mind. His body.
Her mouth went dry.
"You cut your hair." He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, his dark gaze unreadable.
"I—" Her hand went reflexively to her shoulder, where her hair curled under. The last time he'd seen her, it had been inches longer. "Yes. Last year."
He nodded. "Don't blame your secretary, by the way. I told her I'd show myself in. She tried to stop me, but Meg told her to let me go in."
Victoria swallowed. Meg. Of course. She should have guessed. "I see." Finding some semblance of control, she pointed to the chair across from her desk. "Have a seat."
He waited, and she abruptly remembered how polite he was—a gentleman in a world where few existed. She'd always marveled at how he could treat her as an equal and yet always make her so acutely aware that she was a woman.
She sat down behind her desk. He lowered himself into the chair she'd indicated.